


If You're Lost You Can Always Be Found

by K_R_Closson



Series: Settle Down, It'll All Be Clear [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Gen, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Rule 63! Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Clara Barton becomes the Amazing Hawkeye then Trainee Barton. Or, Clara's recruitment by and early days at SHIELD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first of a three part series about Clara Barton. There will be a mix of comic book canon, movie canon, and stuff I made up. Most of the warnings in the tags apply to Clara's father and will only be referenced - no explicit scenes of domestic violence or alcohol abuse.
> 
> Chapters I think need more specifics warnings will have them at the start.
> 
> Series and story titles taken from the song 'Home' by Phillip Phillips.

Clara Francine Barton becomes The Amazing Hawkeye through hard work, determination, and because she has an asshole older brother who likes to introduce her to people as Francine. Growing up in the circus, grunted threats and death glares don’t deter sniggers or sing-songed  _ Francines _ .

A knife that whizzes inches away from their head does.

She learns to throw knives because she’s bored. She becomes good because threats only work if you can back them up. It’s not the first lesson she learns at the circus, but it’s one of the most important. The follow-up, of course, is about reputation.

Once people know that whether they end up bleeding from a knife she throws or go about their day blood free is dependent on how Clara feels; well, a hand reaching towards where she keeps her second-favorite knife is all it takes for them to shut up and scurry off.

Barney laughs when they name her The Amazing Hawkeye, says it’s even stupider than Francine.

He doesn’t get the power of reputation yet, doesn’t get the power in a name.

***

“The mask is important,” the ringmaster tells her when he gives her her costume. “No one comes to the circus to see a girl shoot arrows.”

Clara puts on the mask and redesigns the top of her costume so you can see the curve of her growing breasts. She’s not ashamed of being a girl, and if people are going to come watch her, she wants them to know who they’re seeing.

The ringmaster isn’t happy, but then she begins drawing a larger crowd, because a kid archer who never misses is one thing, but a  _ girl _ is something else entirely. The ringmaster leaves his disapproval behind when they pack up and leave for the next spot on their tour.

“They’re just coming to see you screw up,” Barney tells her, a mean edge to his voice. Sometimes, Clara wishes they could leave him behind when they move on.

“I’m not going to screw up,” she says and it’s not entirely bluster. She split an arrow in two just yesterday in front of a crowd who’d only seen something like that in the animated Robin Hood movie.

Trickshot says if she keeps getting better then they can start doing acrobatics while she shoots. She loves to swing on the bars, and she’s strong enough now to swing herself up into a handstand, and she’ll even do flips if the safety net is up, but that’s just for fun. Maybe after acrobatics he’ll let her ride a horse while she does her tricks.

She likes the animal tent even if it smells like too many animals in a too small space and shit, because the animals like her. The elephant is big but harmless, and the lion prowls his cage when she comes near, but he doesn’t snap at her the way he snaps at other people. The horses are her favorites, though. Jet 1 and Jet 2, because the guy who watches the animals is named Benny, and he introduces himself as Benny and the Jets. He laughs every time he does it, and he told Clara once that the hallmark of a good joke was that you could laugh at it like it was new every time you heard it.

“Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks,” he told her after she’d snuck into the animal tent, because Barney was snoring too loud for her to sleep. “All that matters is that you make yourself happy.”

She’s trained herself to sleep through Barney’s snoring, but she still visits the animal tent. Benny’s the only who doesn’t treat her like a kid or like a machine. The ringmaster looks at her and sees dollar signs. Barney looks at her and sees his dumb little sister.

She’s not sure which she hates more.

***

She collects postcards from every town they stop in. Barney says it’s a waste of money, but they’re only a quarter, and she thinks it’s money well spent. They’re always touristy, a collage of landmarks in town with the town’s name in big bubble letters across the top or a deep blue lake peppered with little dots she likes to imagine are boats.

She has a whole stash of postcards by now, and she writes the dates they’re in town on each of them and something she liked about being there. The way the crowd was polite and picked up all their trash so Clara didn’t have to go hunting for it. The way a little boy rushed up to her when she was walking around the circus in costume to as if she was ‘the real Hawkeye’. He wanted an autograph. She gave him one of her arrows.

When she has a moment alone or when the grind of the nomadic life gets to her she’ll pull her postcards out and sift through them. She lets herself imagine that she stayed there, that a family was so impressed with what she could do that they adopted her and let her live with them and go to school. She imagines living by the lake, hunting down bison and making herself clothes out of their hides.

Benny says there aren’t any bison anymore, not where they travel at least, so Clara nicks a book about fish from a library they pass by and decides she’ll teach herself to fish instead. How hard could it be? All she has to do is shoot her arrows into the water. Maybe put them on a string so she doesn’t lose them.

She keeps her postcards tucked between the pages of the fish book and hides it so well Barney will never find it. It’s where she hides her money too, but she’s hiding that from more than just her brother.

Sometimes she thinks about hopping on one of the horses and riding away to try her luck with fishing and hunting or finding a family.

She never does.

The circus is the only thing she knows now, and she’s good. She’s the best.

It’s just that sometimes her toes ache, wanting to sink down into a place and claim it as hers. When she gets that urge, she goes and finds her bow, wraps her fingers around it and finds a target to shoot at. Her bow is home. Hawkeye is home. She doesn’t need anything else.

***

“I need a new twist,” Clara tells the ringmaster when she’s sixteen and bored, because she can shoot while standing up on a horse, can shoot while falling off a platform, because there isn’t a target she can’t hit, and if she’s bored then the audience must be too.

“You don’t. You need to keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’ve been doing the horse gig for a month now,” she says. “I need something fresh.”

“You don’t. People don’t follow the circus around these days. Every crowd we perform for is new. They’ll lap your stunts up every time.”

He has a point, but it doesn’t stop her from wanting something new. She wants to test herself, push herself. Does he think she can’t grow anymore? She can. She can learn to do a handstand on a horse into a flip onto her feet all while drawing her bow and firing. She can learn to shoot upside down, her legs hooked over the acrobatic bar. There are thousands of new tricks and positions to shoot from. She can master them all.

She’ll start practicing new things and if she lands on something cool, if she can do it perfectly then she’ll bring it up to the ringmaster again. He doesn’t like change, and he doesn’t like anything that can cost him money, but if she can become a bigger attraction then he’ll give her the freedom to expand her act.

“I’m supposed to be the Amazing Hawkeye,” she says, because she can’t resist leaving without a parting shot.

Predictably, the ringmaster’s eyes narrow. “You’re shooting from a moving horse. Most people would say that’s pretty amazing.”

“People were doing that in the Middle Ages.”

She slips away before he can get the last word and goes looking for Barney. He likes to encourage her to give her crazy stunts a try, probably because he’s hoping she’ll get hurt and he can take her place, but he’s good for ideas as long as she adjusts them. Or is careful when she’s getting the hang of them.

They’ve been fighting more and more recently. Ever since she started bunking with Chiffon and Lace, the acrobat twins, and Barney moved in with Trickshot, they’ve been growing even further apart. When Clara turned sixteen, Chiffon pulled her aside and told her it was high time she started living with other women.

“Can’t live in big brother’s shadow forever,” Chiffon said, and offered her a place in their trailer.

“You’re going to start bringing boys home soon, and your brother will chase them out for fun,” Lace said, her way of giving her blessing.

So Clara moved in with the twins and barely sees Barney except for meals. He doesn’t sit with her, choosing to sit with the strongman and Trickshot instead, their heads bent together like they’re talking about something secret while they shovel food into their mouths.

Well, Barney shovels. The strongman doesn’t, because no one dares to take food away from him, and Trickshot eats like a man who knows how to get more food if something happens to his. Clara still shovels, cramming as much food into her body as fast as she can, because Chiffon isn’t above snatching a roll or piece of cornbread off Clara’s plate and reminding Clara that she’s been invited into their trailer, the implication being that she can be uninvited.

One day, Clara’s going to have her own trailer, and no one will be able to kick her out of it. She’ll have her own bow one day, too. She’ll have things of her own, and she won’t owe anyone anything. She won’t have to give Chiffon bits of a meal that isn’t enough for Clara as it is, and she won’t have to pick pockets for Trick because she ‘hasn’t paid off the cost of her bow or her lessons yet’.

It’s bullshit, because she’s earned enough for the circus to pay back her bow and her lessons, but Trick says that’s it’s the circus that the money goes to, not him, and if she insists then there are other ways to pay him back.

She keeps picking pockets.

When she feels daring, she keeps some of the money for herself. It’s not a lot, but sometimes she’ll sneak into town and go to a diner. She learned early on buying food to stash in the trailer just means someone’s going to steal it so she goes to diners and eats as much as her stomach can hold.

Pancakes or country-fried steak slathered in gravy or, on special occasions, a slice of pie topped high with whipped cream. Ice cream is extra, but most places she goes will give her whipped cream free of charge. She knows she only has a few years left of looking young and helpless enough to get pity from matronly waitresses and she intends to use them the best she can.

Her training with Chiffon and Lace or maybe genetics have left her short but solid, compact with muscle, but the baby fat slips off her face with each month that passes, not enough food and too much hard work.

She’s not pretty, not like the fortune teller with her tan skin and soft brown eyes that twinkle like she really does know the future. She doesn’t have fancy dresses or makeup or any of the stuff the fortune teller has, but she doesn’t care about those, either.

She just needs her bow.

She doesn’t knock when she reaches Barney and Trickshot’s trailer; the circus has left her with little regard for privacy. The door sticks, locked, and she bumps into the door when it doesn’t open and her momentum still sends her forward.

Locked doors mean sex, unless you’re the strongman and like it when people walk in on you naked, or Barney who thinks people walking in on him having sex proves that he’s man enough to have girls in his trailer.

She wrinkles her nose at the thought of Trick having sex, but then she hears a couple of hushed whispers. Hushed  _ male _ whispers.

Unless Barney and Trick are –

She stands on the step to their trailer and contorts her body to look through the window to catch a glimpse of what they’re doing. It’s not what she thought.

It’s worse.

They’re shoving things into a safe box in the floor and the fake drawer in Trick’s desk, and she doesn’t see all the things they’re stashing, but she catches a glint of light, a glimpse of a diamond before the necklace is put away.

Stealing.

They’re  _ stealing _ .

Clara doesn’t have much room to judge, because she picks pockets on Trick’s orders, but swiping a five dollar bill or a bit of change is different than taking someone’s  _ watch _ . That’s the kind of thing people notice is missing. And are they going to assume they lost it? No, they’re going to think about the shady circus they went to, and if the circus gets a reputation for being full of thieves then business will dry up faster than a puddle on a hot day.

The circus is her  _ life _ .

_ Their _ lives.

How can they risk it doing something so stupid?

Sure, she’s never going to have a lot of money, but she’s alive and she’s fed, and she has a warm place to sleep, and people she can rely on. She won’t let Barney throw it away. She won’t let Trick do it, either.

She raps on the window, once, twice, doesn’t dare to do it a third time, afraid she’ll break the glass, and both men look up at her. Barney scowls when he sees her, but Trick, for the barest of seconds, lets fear flash across his face before he smiles and motions for her to come in.

She jiggles the door handle to remind them it’s locked.

She hears grumbling and then Barney opens the door, still glaring at her.

She waits until she’s pushed inside and Barney’s shut the door behind her to hiss, “Are you crazy?”

“We’re not going to cut her in,” Barney says, ignoring Clara to talk over her head. Clara’s hands clench into fists, because she hates it when he talks like she isn’t in the room. He’s done it all her life, because being born first apparently gives him the right to be a complete asshole whenever he feels like it. Normally she’d shove him or tell him to fuck off, but she stays still, wary, knowing that she’s intruded on something she shouldn’t have.

It might have been better if they’d been having sex.

“It’s an insurance policy,” Trick explains, patient, like he’s talking to a child, and Clara hates that as much as being ignored. “The circus isn’t going to last forever. We’re making sure we have something tucked away when that happens.”

Barney laughs, harsh and grating against Clara’s ears. “You’re talking to someone who wouldn’t know how to save her money if her life depended on it. She’s always buying useless junk and cluttering up the trailer.”

“And whose fault is that?” Clara demands. “You’re the one who’d go through my stuff and steal anything lying around.”

She keeps enough money for a bus ticket and roughly three meals in her book. She doesn’t dare squirrel away more than that, because everyone snoops, and she can’t risk losing it. Nobody can steal food she’s already put in her belly or the clothes she wears on her back. She’s spent her meager pay on sturdy boots, on clothes that can survive several washes, on things that are going to last.

“We’re family,” Barney says, “What’s yours is mine.”

“Bullshit. You –“

“Enough,” Trick interrupts. “We’re not here to hash out your family drama. Both of you come and sit down.”

Barney immediately takes his place at Trick’s side. Clara stays standing, wary, glad that there’s no one between her and the door anymore.

“I was going to tell you about this,” Trick says. “We’ve just moved the timeline up a bit.”

“You what?” Barney demands.

“I don’t understand,” Clara says.

“You’ve done well stealing small things,” Trick says. “It’s only natural that the next step would be having you take bigger things. Why do you think you’re on parking lot duty when you’re not performing? I know you can break into almost any car out there. Now you’re going to start taking things from them.”

Clara shakes her head. She hates parking lot duty, because she has to wear a bright yellow vest instead of her Hawkeye costume, and that makes sense now. It wouldn’t be good for Hawkeye to get caught stealing from circus patrons. She probably won’t have to wear the vest if she’s going to start stealing, but she doesn’t think it’s a fair trade-off.

“Are you telling me no?” Trick asks, his voice dipping low, dangerous, and Clara freezes up. It’s different than Dad’s anger, loud and thundering, but it’s scary just the same.

“We don’t need her,” Barney says. “We’re doing fine just the two of us.”

“I’ll tell,” Clara blurts out, stupid, and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

Barney and Trick both tense like they’re preparing to strike, and if she’s learned anything growing up, it’s that snitches never live happy lives. But the circus is their home, and they’re ruining it, and she can’t let them. She’ll tell the ringmaster what’s going on. He’ll probably kick Trick and Barney out of the circus, but things will be better that way.

She’s reaching back for the door handle, ready to run, when Trick surprises her by laughing.

“Tell who?” he asks. “The police will shut this place down faster than you can blink.”

She sets her jaw. “I’ll tell the ringmaster.”

This only seems to amuse Trick even more. “And he’ll smack you on the head and tell you to stop bitching and do as I tell you to.”

Some of Clara’s shock must show on her face because Trick shakes his head.

“You think he doesn’t know what we’re doing? Hell girl, who do you think picks the targets?”

“No,” Clara says.

“ _ Yes _ . How do you think we make enough money to survive? Your purple spandex and silly little tricks are good for drawing in crowds, but ticket sales don’t put food on our tables. What we can get from those crowds you draw does.”

Clara’s brain is spinning, trying to keep up with all the new information. She wants to reject all of it, because it’s wrong, it’s not how things are, but…

“Besides,” Trick says, “A nine year old that can shoot is unique enough to bring people in, and a twelve year old girl is still pretty impressive, but you’re getting old. An eighteen year old or, worse, someone in their twenties that never misses a shot? That’s just practice. Nothing special about it.”

Nothing special about it.

Nothing special about  _ her _ .

“I-I have to go,” she says and sprints out of the trailer, the door banging shut behind her.

She’s breathing hard when she locks herself in her trailer, and she drops to her bed, pulls her knees tight to her chest. The circus is a lie. She’s a lie. She’s not the amazing anything. She’s just a stupid girl. A stupid girl who has spent her entire life believing  _ lies _ .

The circus is failing.

The people she trusted, the people she thought cared about her, are stealing.

That doesn’t bother her as much as it probably should. She understands survival, understands doing what you have to. But they’re going to drag the circus down with them.

She needs to get out before that happens. No one will hire an ex-carnie from a circus shut down for being full of thieves. She can leave and find another circus. Or anything, really. She sixteen, old enough for a work permit. She just has to get to a city and she can blend in. She can work and –

And what?

Wash dishes for the rest of her life?

No, she’s not thinking about the future. She’s thinking about the now, about an hour from now. The future is no more than a day away. That’s all she can look forward, too. Anything else and she’ll go crazy.

She needs to get out, and she needs to find a city.

It’s a good plan.

A simple plan.

She grabs her sturdy canvas bag, a pick-up she got from an army surplus store, and she loads it with her meager belongings. Her copy of  _ Greater New England Fish & Wildlife _ is wrapped in her two extra t-shirts and a pair of shorts and gently placed in the bag. She balls up her sweatpants and her sweatshirt and puts those in there too. Socks, underwear.

The bag’s still half-empty when she has everything in it, but she zips it up and hefts it over her shoulder. She’s halfway to the door when she looks back to see her costume and her bow hanging above her bed.

She doesn’t know what she’d need a bow for in the city. It’d probably cause her trouble, lugging a weapon around.

Besides, she’s not special. She’s leaving the Amazing Hawkeye behind.

But it’s hers. She  _ earned _ it.

She crosses the room again and puts the bow in. After a moment of hesitation, she puts the costume in, too.

She doesn’t have enough to be leaving things behind. She can sell them or shoot pigeons from rooftops or  _ something _ .

Everything she owns is now in this bag or on her person. She slips out of her trailer and checks her surroundings. The door to Barney and Trick’s trailer is still shut. The little curtains are drawn across their window now. They probably went back to cataloging their haul after she left. Whatever.

She walks past the animal trailer, wanting to say goodbye but knowing it’s too risky. If anyone catches her she’s in trouble.

She makes it to the edge of their set-up without being noticed. She doesn’t start breathing easier until she’s out of sight of all the trailers. Lace and Chiffon might be worried when she doesn’t show up to dinner, but Barney and Trick will tell them she’s in a snit and they’ll forget about it until they wake up in the morning and Clara still isn’t back. By then it’ll be too late for anyone to find her.

It’s a long, dusty walk into town, but there she gets lucky. A woman in a pick-up truck slows down and rolls down her window to say, “Bus station?”

“Yeah,” Clara says, and just like that she’s got herself a ride.

From there it’s a short bus ride to an even bigger terminal and there she has to decide where she wants to go. A TV screen shows her an endless line of names; PHILADELPHIA, PITTSBURGH, CHICAGO, BOSTON. She doesn’t know how people make decisions this big, doesn’t know how to pick where she’s going to start her life over and then, over the loudspeaker, someone calls, “Second warning for bus departing for New York City,” and she figures that’s as good a sign as any.

She gets herself a ticket with almost all her remaining money and then follows the signs until she gets on a giant double-decker bus.

It’s a long drive, punctuated by the rare stop for food at big buildings on the side of the highway that have a couple different fast food places, a little quick-mart, and more bathrooms than Clara’s ever seen in one place.

She doesn’t have the money to go to McDonalds, and she eyes the donuts at Dunkin Donuts with envy, but she makes do at the quick-mart, finding where the cameras are and then sneaking a few things off the shelves.

Chips are too noisy and take up too much space, but granola bars are easy to slip into her pockets, and they’re more filling, anyway. She doesn’t dare take more than a couple, and she’s constantly hungry on the trip, but that isn’t anything new to her.

When the bus dumps them out at a terminal in New York City, Clara clutches the straps of her bag tight in her hands and lets the crowd push her through the building to the outside, and there she goes stock still on the sidewalk.

The city is  _ huge _ .

She’s never seen buildings that reach that high up in the sky, buildings that make her neck hurt just looking at them.

The streets are packed, reminding her of the circus on a good day, only even more people. They’re filling the sidewalk on both sides of the street, and watching someone try to walk against the flow of the people reminds her of the picture of salmon in her book, how they would struggle to swim against the current just to get home.

Clara’s not a salmon, and she doesn’t have a home, so she lets the crowd sweep her up and she moves with them, keeping an eye out for somewhere to stay tonight. There’s a chill in the air, and she’s not sure she can sleep outside here as easily as she slept outside on nights in the circus when she needed to see the sky whenever she opened her eyes.

Her feet are beginning to get sore when she sees a large stone building that looks out of place, surrounded by glass skyscrapers. There are a couple scattered trees in front of it, and wide steps leading up to big stone arches.

_ New York Public Library _ the sign in front of it reads.

It’s as good a place to spend the night as any.


	2. Chapter 2

The library is  _ huge _ , and it’s the perfect place to hide. She can walk in without anyone looking at her strangely and from there it’s easy to disappear. The security check before closing is to make sure no one accidentally gets locked in.

No one’s concerned about someone  _ purposefully _ getting locked in.

Once the building is locked, the only alarms engaged are on the front doors and the vault, but that’s always alarmed, and Clara doesn’t care about a bunch of old books.

The library is old which means big vents, and Clara stashes her bag in one the first night. The rest of the night she spends exploring the library by the emergency lights and whatever extra light trickles in through the windows.

She washes herself the best she can in the bathroom and rummages through the librarians’ desks until she finds enough snacks to stop her stomach from rumbling. She has to pick the locks on a couple of the desk drawers, and it makes her laugh that the granola bars are locked up but the Oreos are in the top drawer for anyone to take.

She filches from each stash she finds and it’s enough to fill her up now and have a little bit for later. She’s tempted to take everything, but she knows that’s how you get yourself noticed. A little bit here, a little bit there, and no one will search the building for a thief.

Her second night in the library she hits the jackpot when she discovers the kitchen. There’s a mini-refrigerator full of Tupperware with post-its that say  _ Jones  _ and  _ Neuvirth _ and  _ Rask _ . There are several signs posted around the kitchen saying not to eat food that isn’t yours and don’t leave your dishes in the sink.

That night, Clara cuts herself a small chunk of meatloaf and eats it cold, because she’s afraid to use the microwave. It’s the best thing she’s tasted in a really long time.

Including the Oreos.

Night four gives her the best find yet.

The roof.

Well, a vent that she can climb to the roof. There’s a set of stairs that lead to the roof, but that door is locked and alarmed. But with her vent, Clara can come and go from the library as she pleases.

The exhilaration of the discovery doesn't last long.

She can’t sneak enough food from desks and the refrigerator to feed herself. Having a warm place to sleep and easy access to it means nothing if she starves.

She goes looking for food.

The city is completely different looking down at it than looking up and even though the library isn’t a very tall building, Clara still feels big, invincible.

Until her stomach growls.

She goes to the edge of the roof to see what’s happening near her. Near the steps of the library, some people in torn coats or thin blankets are sitting with signs. They shake their cups, loose change jangling when other people walk by.

They’re easy targets, but she isn’t going to steal from people worse off than she is. Barney laughs at her for it, but she does believe in karma. If you do bad things then bad things are going to get done to you.

Maybe she should venture out in the day time. If the streets are packed like they were when she got off the bus then it won’t be too hard to slip a wallet or two, the way Trick taught her.

That still leaves tonight.

She ventures to the other side of the roof. There’s a fire escape that she climbs down so she’s back on the ground. She doesn’t like it. The ground isn’t safe. Too many directions for people to come from. She hunches, hopes she won’t attract any attention, and starts walking.

She keeps track of streets she crosses, she doesn’t want to get lost, and it doesn’t take long before the street lights start dwindling and the buildings get less fancy and she’s thinking about turning back when she sees a bunch of people huddled together.

On the one hand, there are a lot more of them than her.

On the other, they’ve got a fire in a barrel, and she’s cold.

She never should’ve left the library.

“You lost?”

Clara jerks at the sound, eyes wide when she realizes the question’s been directed at her. She’s been spotted. She takes a step back.

“Easy.” The woman who speaks is wearing a hat, but her long gray hair is down past her shoulders. It falls in greasy clumps, bending this way and that like gnarled tree branches.

Clara stays where she is, but she’s tense, wary.

There’s some grumbling from the others and the grumbling increases when the woman waves Clara forward. “Come closer, dear.”

Clara’s feet won’t move. It’s warm there, and they might have food, but is it too risky? Will they hurt her?

Better to be hungry and safe.

“I’m Agatha,” the woman says.

“She doesn’t care,” someone else says.

“Just let her run off. There’s too many of us as it is.”

“She’s a kid,” Agatha says.

“Not a kid,” Clara says, crossing her arms over her chest.

There’s some scattered laughs at that. Clara’s cheeks burn, and she hopes the dark hides her blush.

“There are places to take kids.”

“There are people who’ll take kids.”

Clara glances around like one of those people is going to come out of the shadows and grab her. She’s got a knife in her sock, because it’s easy to carry around, easier than her bow at least. She wishes she had it now. Then anyone who snuck up on her would get dead.

“Stop scaring her,” Agatha scolds. “Girl, come here. You must be cold.”

She is cold. And if they have fire maybe they have food. She has a knife, she reminds herself as she inches forward. She can protect herself.

“There you go,” Agatha says once Clara’s near enough to feel the warmth of the fire on her face. Her back is still cold. She wishes she had a warmer coat. From now on, she only leaves the library during the day. “What’s your name?”

Clara shakes her head. “That’s not safe.”

One of them, a man with two missing teeth, laughs. It isn’t nice. “Mama raise you not to talk to strangers? Shoulda stayed with her.”

“Thas wasn’t safe either,” Clara says.

Mom wouldn’t run away with Clara and Barney. Said she made her choice years ago. Gave them a bit of money, distracted their dad so they could get away. She doesn’t know what happened to them. Maybe that’s what she should’ve done instead of coming to the city. Maybe she should’ve tried to find her family.

She almost laughs at the thought.

“Feisty,” the guy says.

Clara thinks about burying her knife in his eye. Or maybe knocking out a few more teeth.

“Ignore him,” Agatha counsels. “And Gary? Leave the girl alone.”

“You gonna protect her from everyone?” Gary asks. “Adopt her and keep all the bad men away?”

“I can protect myself,” Clara says, but she understands what he’s saying, understands the look in his eye. She’s not safe. Not with her long hair giving her away. She liked it in the circus, liked throwing in everyone’s face that she was a girl. The Amazing Hawkeye was a girl, because girls can be amazing, too.

Without it though, she’s stocky and her chest is pretty flat. She could probably pass. At least enough to avoid creepy stares and the way Gary’s looking at her like he wants to get her alone.

She pulls the knife out of her boot and while everyone’s still gasping in surprise, she starts hacking off her hair. It’s definitely uneven, but it’s short enough that no one’s going to assume she’s a girl. She tosses the hair on the ground, because hair doesn’t smell good when it gets burned, and glares at Gary.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Something wrong with you, girl.”

Clara bares her teeth. “Lots of things.”

“She’s not staying here tonight,” Gary says.

Agatha starts to protest but Clara cuts her off. “I’ve got a place to stay. Was looking for food. I can move on.”

“Here,” Agatha says. She reaches into her coat to pull out a piece of grease-stained paper. Wrapped in the paper is a slice of pizza.

“I knew you took an extra,” someone grumbles.

“I got the pizza,” Agatha says. “Rules say I get the extra piece.”

Clara snatches the pizza before anyone else can take it. She shoves half of it in her mouth before she says, “Thanks.”

“Two blocks that way then three over,” Agatha says pointing. “Mama Vigliano’s. They toss the burnt ones. They don’t like people hanging out. Don’t like beggars. You know how not to be seen?”

Clara nods. It’s one of the first things she learned.

“You look quick. Stand a better chance than us at least.”

“Then how’d you get this?” Clara asks with a frown. She eats more while she waits for her answer, careful to keep an eye on anyone that might try to take the rest of it from her.

Gary laughs. “We ain’t giving you all our secrets.”

Clara shakes her head, because she understands that, from the circus. “Don’t want ‘em. Sorry if you thought I was snooping. Thanks for the tip. And the slice. I should go.”

“You really have someplace?” Agatha asks.

Clara grins. “Ain’t giving you that secret.”

Agatha shakes her head. “If you don’t die, stop by so we know you’re okay.”

Clara shrugs. Either she will or she won’t. She crams the entire crust in her mouth and braves the cold to get back to her library.

~*~

It takes Clara a few false tries to find Mama Vigliano’s, but she keeps hunting because she’s hungry, and this is her best bet. It only takes her a few seconds to find a good perch to watch the back door and the dumpster.

She just needs to figure out the pattern and then find out the best way to get what she wants.

It takes a long time for a pizza to get burnt enough to toss. They probably wouldn’t be in business if they burned a lot, but it’s still disappointing. She’s hungry again.

But finally the door opens and a boy in white pants and a sweaty, grease-stained white shirt appears with a pizza on a cardboard circle. Clara can hear yelling from inside, but it’s not English and she doesn’t understand the words. She understands the tone, though, and the way the boy hangs his head as he drops the pizza in the dumpster.

She waits until he’s gone back in to make her move. She darts down, gets the dumpster open and scoops up the pizza. She hears footsteps and she quickly takes her prize and ducks down behind the dumpster. As the footsteps, and now voices, get closer, she squeezes herself under the dumpster.

If you can’t find a place up high to hide then you squeeze yourself somewhere they won’t think to look.

She puts her pizza on the ground - it’s already been in the trash - and starts eating a slice. If she does get found, whoever it is is going to take her pizza. She needs to eat as much as she can now.

She’s made it through an entire slice before she can see shoes next to the dumpster. The white pair are filthy and scuffed. The black pair have holes.

There’s the creak of the dumpster opening and Clara shoves another piece into her mouth. The bottom’s singed, but it’s warm and the cheese is delicious, and - forget the meatloaf - this is the best thing she’s ever tasted in her life.

Pizza is officially her favorite food.

“It’s gone,” one voice says, disbelieving. “I heard him open the door. I heard Mama V yelling. There should be pizza here.”

“You’re just imagining again,” a second voice says. “Johnny’s going to be pissed about the false alarm.”

“I coulda sworn -”

“Yeah, well -”

Both kids freeze, but it’s too late because Clara hears the back door open again.

“Ey, what’re you doing here!” a heavily accented male voice demands. “Outta here! Out! Scram!”

The two kids take off running, and Clara closes her eyes and focuses on breathing slowly.

“Everything alright?” a new voice calls.

“Scavengers again. Heard the dumpster creak. Thing’s better than an alarm.”

Clara holds herself still until the door shuts again. She’s going to have to find something to grease the hinges if this is going to be a good place to scout for food. She’s also going to be spending a lot of time plastered under a dumpster.

She takes another bite of pizza.

Worth it.

~*~

She ends up with two pizzas out of the day. The first one she eats underneath the dumpster until she gets the second one. That one she takes up to her perch. She’s got nothing better to do than see how things go in this little corner she’s claiming for herself.

She’s up high when the two kids come back, a boy and a girl, the boy still chubby in the face like kids are. They go through not finding a pizza again and this time the girl hits the boy on the head.

“Never going on runs with you again,” she says. “Don’t care what Johnny says.”

“You heard it that time, too!” the boy says.

They bicker as they move out and Clara sorts through this new information. They’re clearly like her, hungry and homeless and looking for anything they can to eat. And they know about this place and know they have to be quick or get out.

But they’re not quite like her. They’re together. And there’s this Johnny. Someone who’s in charge. Are there lots of kids, then? Could she join them?

No.

They’d make her share.

Why share her pizza when she could eat it all herself? She doesn’t need anything from them. She has a food source. She has a place to sleep. They can’t offer her anything.

Will they abandon this place when the pizza seems to run dry? Will they suspect something and bring more of them?

Clara’s going to have to keep an eye out.

She goes to the library to stash all but two slices of her second pizza. The two slices she takes with her back through the city, to where Agatha was the other night.

They all look wary when they see her.

“No more handouts,” Gary says.

Clara ignores them, goes right up to Agatha and gives her the pizza.

“I don’t take handouts,” she says, with a glare for the others. “Paid back, with interest.”

Agatha looks down at Clara. “Well, aren’t you something.”

Clara shrugs. She’s just making sure they’re square. Being generous when she can afford to be.

“You want to stay with us?” a woman wrapped in two jackets but still shivering asks.

Clara glances at Gary. It isn’t safe here. Besides, they just want her to get their pizza for them. She gets pizza for her. No one else. Except this time. But it was payback so it doesn’t count.

“I got a place,” Clara says and takes off before anyone can say anything else.

~*~

She gets herself a routine. She eats half a pizza in the morning in her air vent before she does a little exploring. She makes sure to get under the dumpster by the time the sun means it’s somewhere close to noon and she stays there until she gets a pizza. After that, she brings her pizza back to her air vent.

The rest of the day, some days a lot of time, some days less, is for more exploring. She eats half the pizza before bed, the other half waiting for the morning.

It’s a good system. She almost isn’t hungry anymore and, by only taking one pizza, she leaves the rest for whatever kid gang is running around. Some days, there is no pizza. Those aren’t good days.

She washes herself and her clothes the best she can in the library bathroom but it isn’t enough. It’s hard to pick pockets when people won’t get near her because she smells. Plus, dirty smelly kids aren’t the kind of people other people trust.

She’s got enough money stashed away that she can get herself a hot dog from a cart on the days there are no pizzas. No diners let her inside, even when she shows them she has money. She needs to find a way to clean her clothes. And herself.

She’s been in survival mode long enough. Now she needs to branch out. She needs to find a better place to live than an air vent in a public library. Somewhere close to the pizza place.

One afternoon she finds herself up on the roof of an apartment building. She’d scouted the building the other day, but it’s too nice to have an empty room for her to slip into. So, she can’t live here, but she has been tracking other people who live here.

She thinks she has 4B down. He works two nights on, one night off. Clara’s planning to sneak into his room and use his shower when he’s gone. She won’t steal anything, because the shower’s more important. Maybe he’ll have laundry. Probably not. But once she’s clean she can pick some pockets and once she has money she can go to the laundromat.

It’s a good plan, maybe a little short-term, but good.

Anyway, today isn’t about scouting. Today is about getting to use her bow again. She brings it to the roof in its bag. It’s nighttime so she doesn’t think anyone’s going to notice her running across rooftops, but if they do she doesn’t want them to see the bow.

It’s been a long time since she used it.

And since it’s the only thing she’s good at, she doesn’t want to get out of practice.

She got a surprise today, a meatball calzone which isn’t as good as cheese pizza but was better than the pizza she had a couple days ago. She doesn’t know what was on it but it was really salty. She ate it anyways.

She’s feeling good, and after she strings her bow she looks around for targets. She obviously can’t risk shooting an arrow off the roof so she went through the arts ‘n crafts section of the library until she found some sturdy string to tie to her arrows. Now when she shoots them, she won’t lose them.

Of course, she still doesn’t have anything to shoot. Maybe the rooftop wasn’t such a good idea.

There’s a squawk and she looks over to see that a couple of pigeons have decided to invade her roof.

“Scram,” she says. She waves her arms. They don’t seem intimidated. “Go away.”

They turn their little beady black eyes on her and she nocks an arrow. She doesn’t know why they’d be scared of a bow, but -

Oh.

She could shoot the pigeons.

They’re wily and mobile and it would be a good challenge.

Plus, you can eat pigeon, right?

Probably. You can eat most things if you cook them.

And lucky for her, she knows someone with a fire.

~*~

It’s hard to limit herself to only shooting two pigeons, because it means only shooting two arrows. As soon as she starts using her bow again, she wants to keep using it. But there’s no use in killing more pigeons than she can use. While she doesn’t think the city will ever run out, it’s not like she can carry more than two without making it obvious she’s running around with dead pigeons.

What it means is that she’ll need to rig some sort of targets.

She can’t afford to get sloppy.

Who knows when she’ll need to defend herself.

Or...something.

She won’t find any circuses out here, but there have to be other uses for someone good with a bow.

She stashes her bow back at the library before going to find Agatha.

“Back again,” Agatha says.

Clara’s only begun keeping track of days so she can study 4B’s habits, but she thinks it’s been at least a week since she’s been by. Is that too soon?

No. Doesn’t matter. She has something to barter. She can come whenever she wants.

“I want to use your fire,” Clara says.

Gary huffs out a laugh. “Thought you had your own place.”

“I do.” She shows one of her pigeons. “But I need fire.”

Gary laughs again.

Clara didn’t come for him. She turns back to Agatha. “Fair trade. You give me fire, I’ll give you food.”

“How’d you get that?” Agatha asks.

Clara narrows her eyes. “Secret.”

“If it was poison birdseed, I don’t want it,” Agatha says.

Clara frowns but she needs the fire. “I shot it.”

Gary laughs. “Little girl like you with a gun? Guns are bad news.”

“I used a bow and arrow.”

Gary’s not the only one laughing now.

Clara doesn’t need this. She stashes the pigeon again. “It’s cold. I’m sure other people have fire.”

“Unruffle those feathers,” Agatha says. “I’ll make that trade with you. We gotta pluck it first. You know how to do that?”

“Can I keep the feathers?”

Pigeon feathers aren’t what she’d prefer to use for arrows, but they’re better than nothing. How she’s going to get the shafts and the points is another question, but she’ll deal with it later.

“You’re a regular Robin Hood, aren’t you?” Gary asks.

Agatha leads her to a crate by the fire. They sit side by side and Clara hands her a pigeon before taking out the second one. Agatha doesn’t look surprised and Clara decides she likes her a little better.

“You must be pretty good with that bow of yours,” she says.

“Yeah.”

Clara starts pulling feathers out. She’s plucked birds before. For a time, when they had the space, they kept some fowl with their circus animals. They had fresh eggs then, later, fresh meat. As one of the younger kids, Clara got to pluck the birds. It wasn’t so bad. And later, Trick showed her how to make fletching for her arrows.

He was really big on her making her own arrows. It was part of her lessons in ‘responsibility’. Usually responsibility was code for making her do things he didn’t feel like doing. At least she learned some useful things.

She pulls the next feather out with more force than necessary.

Thinking about Trick still makes her angry.

She needs to get over it. Get over him. Get over Barney. She’s on her own now, and she’s better for it. Attachment is weakness.

After they finish plucking, Agatha pulls out a long, thin, metal rod. On closer inspection, it looks like a couple hangers that had been straightened out then wove together.

“It works,” Agatha says when she catches Clara staring. “I bet you’ve made some things.”

Clara nods. She found an empty pizza box which has been a great find, because she has a place to store her pizza now. Protects it from flies and dirt and other things when she puts it in the vent. She has her arrows with strings. Soon she’ll have targets.

She’s also been collecting stray bobby pins, just as valuable, if not more, than spare change. They’re good for picking locks or keeping windows propped enough to keep from locking without being obviously open. She’s preparing for her visit to 4B’s apartment.

Clara keeps an eye on the others as their pigeons cook. They’re openly envious, hunger in their eyes, but they’re keeping their distance. They recognize ownership. Good, Clara thinks, but she doesn’t relax.

The tension doesn’t leave her body until she finishes her pigeon - not bad, not as good as pizza - and is back safe in her vent. She goes to sleep that night with a smile on her face.


	3. Chapter 3

When she showers at 4B’s it’s as amazing as she imagined. The water is hot and she scrubs weeks of dirt off her body. She lets herself linger a little bit, 4B showers before work so she doesn’t have to worry about the shower looking used. Doesn’t have to worry about the towel being wet either even if it means she’s using a wet towel to dry herself off.

It’s her first shower with her short hair and it’s a little weird, but she likes how easy it is to wash her hair.

She comes out of the shower feeling like a new person. She doesn’t want to put dirty clothes back on, but she doesn’t have any other choice.

Well...she (carefully) goes through 4B’s drawers and, deciding he has enough underwear, takes a couple pairs. They’re boxer briefs and a little big but they’re (hopefully) clean. She also takes a deodorant, because he has five extra ones and won’t notice one missing.

He doesn’t have a bunch of extra toothpastes or she’d take one of those, too. She can use some of her money to buy a new tube when the one she brought from the circus runs out.

The deodorant is red and has a ship on it and it smells pretty strongly but it smells decidedly male, and that will help her so she keeps it.

~*~

She has three different apartment buildings she rotates for shooting pigeons and shooting targets. The targets aren’t as fun as the ones she shot at in the circus, but they’re good enough to keep her in shape and that will have to do for now.

The apartment buildings also have some other perks. There’s 4B where she tries to shower once a week. There 231 where she can shower in a pinch (like the time 4B was sick and didn’t go anywhere for two weeks), and also where she swiped a blanket from when the vent was beginning to get cold. There’s 3D where she gets laundry detergent when she makes trips to the laundromat.

She won’t use the laundry in 3D, too much of a risk of discovery, but instead of liquid detergent they have these little pod things which are easy for her to slip into her pockets.

She almost feels like a real person again except she’s still sleeping in an air vent. She’s been scouting other apartment buildings for empty rooms, but that seems too risky. If she wants to venture further away from the library and the pizza place and Agatha then there’s a condemned apartment building she could probably make a nest in, but she’s not sure she wants to be that far away from the familiar.

Besides, she’s got a blanket now and she’s using an old t-shirt stuffed with pigeon feathers as a pillow, and she’s slept in worse conditions. A bed would be nice, but she doesn’t need it.

Still, she’s accomplished her goals - she’s found a shower, she’s gotten shooting targets - and it’s about time for a new one. She wants a fridge. She could gather more food at a time so she wouldn’t have to go looking every day. She could store perishables which means she could use some of the money she’s been saving to buy food that lasts longer than one or two meals.

She can’t keep a fridge at the library.

Which means a second base.

Or maybe a new one.

Life is about change, she reminds herself.

Getting comfortable is dangerous.

~*~

“It’s getting colder,” Agatha says while they’re plucking pigeons.

Clara shows up every night with two pigeons. Between the birds and the pizza she’s not gaining weight but she isn’t losing it either. But she won’t be able to lie in wait for pizza if the temperature keeps dropping. Pigeons she can keep killing. Trick made sure she can shoot under nearly every kind of circumstance there is.

She doesn’t want to be down to one food source.

Plus, cold weather will make pickpocketing more risky. Not a lot of people carry their wallets in their outer pockets.

“Your place good against the cold?”

“It works,” Clara says.

“I’ve got an extra pair of gloves,” Mindy says. She eyes Clara across the fire. “A pigeon a day for a week and I’ll give ‘em to you.”

Killing pigeons is easy. “Fine,” Clara says, “but you pluck it, and I get the feathers.”

“Deal.”

Clara has a pair of gloves, a hat, and a scarf by the time the first snow falls.

She didn’t see much snow while she was in the circus. She decides she doesn’t like snow. She  _ really _ doesn’t like being cold.

She ends up going to the condemned building. The air vent isn’t very warm, and the empty apartment building isn’t either but at least there’s no wind blowing through the shaft. Besides, now that she’s found a place to stay, she can begin filling it.

She has a blanket and pillow that she brings with her and the next week she adds two more blankets and a winter coat to her collection. The winter coat was risky. She broke into a fancier apartment for it, and she’s glad she took the precaution to wrap her scarf around her face like a mask, because an alarm went off when she slipped in through the window and if they had an alarm they might have had cameras.

Anyway, their closet was full of coats so Clara didn’t feel bad taking one. She also raided the pantry while she was there. They already knew someone had broken in so it couldn’t hurt. She spent a week eating peanut butter sandwiches and shivering in her new coat.

She doesn’t have a fridge yet, but it’s cold enough that she doesn’t need one. What she really wants, and risks a trip to a store and spending some of her precious money on, is an electric blanket.

The top floors of the building she’s in are empty but the bottom floors are occupied, and the building has electricity. She thinks the problem has something to do with water damage, because there are a couple rooms with stained floors or ceilings and a couple with a giant hole in the floor. She stays out of those rooms.

The blanket saves her life.

The first time she plugs it into the wall she finally feels  _ warm _ . It makes her feel safe, it lets her sleep, and she decides there’s nothing better than coming home to an electric blanket.

~*~

She doesn’t venture far from the building as long as the winter lasts.

She buys a hot plate and steals a pot.

She’s gotten better at recognizing which apartment buildings are nicer and which have people who are better off than her but not much better. It’s riskier to break into the rich ones, but Clara steals from them anyway, because they can afford to have a pot or some food go missing. And she doesn’t take anything major. She leaves the jewelry alone (it always makes her stomach twist and she remembers Barney and Trick). She doesn’t touch the safes or the fancy art or anything like that.

If there’s cash lying around she’ll take it, but she’s not trying to get the police on her back or security tightened. She’s just trying to make it through the winter.

There are a couple times she has to stash her stuff and spend a few nights at the library because there are people inspecting the building, and she doesn’t want to get caught. At least the library has electricity so her blanket works. She just has to be careful to be awake and in the vents before the morning staff opens it up.

She gets sick once, thankfully when she’s in the building, and she doesn’t know how long she’s sick for, but she doesn’t leave her room at all and only leaves her nest to shit or piss in her pot. It’s not the highlight of her life.

She’s weak for days by the time she’s done with the sweats and the weird dreams, and she’s desperate for food, and needs a new pot, and it leads her to breaking into an apartment she doesn’t have the strength or the wits really to be breaking into.

She got a pillowcase from the linen closet and put a pot in there, and she’s got a granola bar crammed in her mouth and she’s shoving boxes of pasta and crackers and basically anything she can get her hands on into the pillowcase when the doorknob turns.

Clara freezes, curses herself for not paying more attention, and immediately starts thinking of escape routes. She’s too tired for extended running. Too tired for any kind of chase or confrontation, actually.

She has her knife, but she doesn’t want to stab anyone.

She wraps her scarf around her face so she isn’t identifiable and pulls out her knife anyways.

It’s always good to be prepared.

She also starts edging back towards the window, hoping to get out of here without being noticed. She makes it halfway through the window before a man in a tie comes into the kitchen and sees her.

“Hey! You!”

Time to leave.

She hoists herself the rest of the way out the window and sprints up the fire escape, heart pounding as the man continues to shout. Other people open their windows and a couple of them shout at her too and someone throws a wooden spoon at her (she ducks) and someone else throws a knife.

She doesn’t know why people are throwing knives at a girl with a pillowcase, and she twists to avoid it and it nicks her cheek. Nothing life threatening, but there will be blood on it.

The knife clatters down the firescape.

She can’t go after it.

She keeps going up, makes it across one roof, then another, hides to make sure she isn’t being followed. She eats two granola bars while she’s waiting, one of the chewy ones and one of the hard ones with peanut butter.

Her heart is pounding in her chest, and she’s breathing hard, but it looks like she’s all clear. She forces herself to casually make her way back to her hideout and then she rewards herself by not leaving for the rest of the day and night.

~*~

Spring finally comes and Clara feels a little bit like a bear, emerging from hibernation.

She hopes she won’t have to fight those kids to get her pizza again. She’s missed pizza. There were some days that were warm enough to camp out under the dumpster but not many.

More importantly, spring means she can seek out Agatha and company again.  

She hasn’t talked to anyone since she’s found her new home unless you count the people who yelled at her and threw things at her when she was fleeing the apartment with her new pot. Does that count? She doesn’t think it counts.

She shows up at the barrel with a celebratory pizza, but it’s different. The alleyway is clean, no overturned crates, no little nests, just a barrel - a new barrel - and a couple faces she doesn’t recognize.  

“Scram, kid,” one of them says, a woman with gloves where the fingertips have frayed off. Her dark fingers poke out of the gloves and she glares when Clara holds her ground.

“Huh,” a voice she knows says. Gary comes out of the shadows. His beard is scragglier than the last time she saw him. It’s also peppered with white and gray. “You made it. Found a good hidey hole?”

“Secret,” Clara says. She looked around. “Where’s Agatha?”

Gary’s eyes haven’t left the pizza in her hands. “Give me her half and I’ll tell you.”

“Who said she was getting half?” Clara holds the pizza closer to her chest. She’s aware of the fact that there are four strangers around the barrel now, four strangers and one Gary, against her. She shifts the pizza to one hand in case she needs to go for her knife.

Gary laughs. “Everyone knew she was your favorite.”

Clara goes still. “ _ Was _ ?”

Gary shrugs, hunching down in his coat. “Pizza.”

Clara tears off a slice and tosses it to him. “ _ Was? _ ”

He eats the whole thing before he answers. “We can’t stay here with the cold. Look for shelters. They don’t always have space.”

Gary holds out an expectant hand.

Numb, Clara tosses him another piece. She knows what he’s going to say, but she needs to hear him say it anyways.

“Park bench,” Gary says. “Cold night. Happens sometimes.”

Happens sometimes.

_ Happens sometimes _ .

This is why you don’t make friends, she tells herself, her surroundings growing blurry, then faded. This is why you stay on your own. Safer that way. You can’t lose anyone if you’re alone. You -

Movement.

Her head snaps up.

Her knife is in her hand, ready to strike.

The woman with the frayed gloves holds her hands up and takes a big step back. “No harm, girlie. Relax.”

Her gaze darts from Frayed Gloves to Gary. There’s a bit of respect in his eyes. A healthy amount of fear, too. Clara’s hands begin to tremble.

“She’s really gone?”

Gary’s lips peel back in a smile.

For a moment, Clara can picture her knife burying itself in Gary’s eye. She can see it slicing across his mouth so he can’t ever talk to her again. For a moment, she can see herself kneeling over him, carving him up.

But killing him won’t bring Agatha back.

And she isn’t a killer. She won’t even steal jewelry, and she’s thinking about killing a man?

She laughs, and all five people in front of her edge backwards. She laughs and laughs and somewhere along the line the laughter turns into something uglier, turns into tears.

“Aw, hell kid,” Gary says.

“Shut her up,” someone else hisses. “We don’t need no cops thinking we’re abusing a kid.”

Clara takes a deep breath and wipes at her eyes. She’s not a baby. She’s not going to sit and cry in front of strangers.

“She was better than all of you,” Clara says.

Frayed Gloves shrugs. “Still dead.”

Clara’s tempted to dump the pizza in the fire. But hurting these people won’t make Agatha come back, and she might need them later. She hadn’t meant to become Agatha’s friend, but they’d helped each other and friendship developed. She’ll just have to make sure that mutual helping here doesn’t lead to friendship.

She eyes Frayed Gloves, then Gary.

It won’t be a problem.

“Here,” she says, giving the rest of pizza to Gary.

He snatches it before she can reconsider. “Thanks.”

“It’s not a gift,” she says, her voice hard. “I’ll come collecting later. Don’t die on a bench.”

Gary laughs, but Clara doesn’t think it’s funny. She slips her knife back into its hiding place and returns to her nest.

Agatha’s gone.

She hasn’t needed the fire to cook her pigeons since she got her hot plate and her pot. She doesn’t need anything from the barrel people. She doesn’t need anyone but herself.

And that’s why she hadn’t left her nest. She didn’t think to check on them when it was snowing and she had her electric blanket to protect her. She could’ve shared. Just with Agatha. But how would she’ve gotten up? She was old. She couldn’t swing around fire escapes and jump through windows. When the inspectors came, she would’ve been found.

No, Clara couldn’t have shared. And she wouldn’t have found her if she went looking. If they left the barrel then Clara wouldn’t even know where to start looking.

She couldn’t have helped Agatha.

It doesn’t stop her from wishing she had.

~*~

She’s taken to shooting pigeons in the early morning when it’s light enough to see but too early for anyone to be awake and wondering why there’s a girl with a bow and arrow shooting pigeons on a roof. She likes the quiet of the early morning, and she likes how peaceful the city seems, like the deep breath before someone starts yelling.

She hasn’t been to see the barrel people since she heard about Agatha, and it’s been long enough that the weather’s warmed up a lot. She doesn’t need to wear her winter coat anymore, can get away with just a t-shirt most of the time.

She’s had to find a new empty apartment to live in, but it turns out finding partially condemned buildings isn’t so hard once you know where to look.

Even better, she spotted a bunch of kids moving out of a giant apartment building awhile back, and for a whole week there was a bunch of free stuff on the curb for anyone to take. Clara finally has that fridge she wanted. It’s a little fridge, but it works, and she actually has food in it now.

Also from the the mass exodus she got a bunch of couch cushions. She couldn’t carry the couches themselves, but the cushions were easy to take off. She makes herself a mattress, and the cushions aren’t the same size or even the same material so it’s a lumpy mattress but at least it’s soft.

Anyways, what’s she’s trying to say is that things are finally going well, and that, of course, is when she slips up.

She’s down to shooting pigeons once, sometimes twice, a week, because it’s easy to get a bunch at once and now that she has a fridge, it’s best to keep her shooting to a minimum when there’s a chance at being seen.

She’s got her ten pigeons and is getting ready to slip back home when she hears applause behind her.

She spins around, bow in hand, arrow nocked, and the man who had been clapping puts his hands up in surrender.

He’s in a full suit which is absurd, because Clara’s sweating in just a t-shirt and shorts, but other than that he’s unremarkable. Dark brown hair with a hairline just beginning to recede, brown eyes, and -

Gun.

She can see the flash of leather on a holster when the man raises his hands before his suit jacket falls to cover it. She bets most people miss that small moment, too busy looking at something else, or maybe they don’t recognize what they see. But she was called Hawkeye for a reason; she sees things other people don’t.

She pulls back the string of her bow. “That gun won’t help you if I kill you before you can draw.”

She’s never killed anyone before, and she’s not eager to start, but she’s never been threatened by a stranger before.

Just a man for a walk, part of her says.

In a full suit? With a gun? At this hour?

Threat.

“I was just admiring your skill with your bow,” the man says, voice calm. Too calm. Clara doesn’t trust it. “Not many could hit a pigeon clean through the eye like that.”

“Come any closer, and I’ll give you something you can really admire,” Clara says.

“This meeting isn’t really going the way I planned,” the man says.

“You surprise a lot of girls on rooftops?” Clara asks.

The man smiles. “No. You’re the first. How did you know I was carrying a gun? Most people don’t notice.”

“I’m not most people.”

She can’t keep her bow drawn on him forever, but she doesn't want to relax and give him the opportunity to strike.

“You said you were planning this meeting,” she says. “What do you want with me?”

“I want to make you an offer.”

She laughs. “You and every other fucking man in this city.” She changes the angle of her shot so it’ll hit lower than his heart. “Not interested.”

There’s a flash of something - anger? - in his eyes before his face is smooth again, expressionless. “A different offer. How would you like a job?”

This man, in his fancy suit, with his perfectly combed hair, and  _ gun _ , wants to offer her a job? Her, in her shorts with the drawstring pulled tight so they won’t fall off and t-shirt dirty beyond what any washing machine can fix. He’s watching her shoot pigeons off the roof. Does he not realize she’s going to bring them somewhere to pluck them and eat them? She bets he’s never eaten a pigeon in his life.

Trap, part of her says.

Nothing good ever happens to you, another part chimes in.

She’s not stupid. “I ain’t interested.”

“You haven’t heard my offer.”

“What have I got to offer you?” she says. “Nothing I’m willing to give.”

“You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen,” the man says, and she doesn’t think he’s lying. “I heard rumors about a girl killing pigeons. A friend of mine owns one of the buildings you were hunting on. He was grateful that you were getting rid of them.”

“So grateful he snitched?”

The man shrugs. “Impressed, actually. I came to see for myself.”

“I’ve been a good shot for years.”

“I know,” the man says, “Though I would say amazing rather than good.”

Her bow is back up, arrow ready to fly in an instant. He knows about the circus. There’s no way that was an accident, calling her amazing. Her eyes narrow. “How long have you been planning this meeting?”

“The original plan was to offer you a job when you turned 18,” the man says, “but then you disappeared. Quite effectively. It took me a long time for find you.”

He’s been following her since the circus. He’s dangerous. She should shoot him.

She’s never shot a person before.

Just like a pigeon - through the eye.

No.

Yes.

_ No. _

“How did you?”

“Blood,” the man answers. “Police found a knife with blood on it. According to a report it was the blood of a thief. When they entered it into the system it pinged an alert I had. New York City’s a big place, though. My friend helped me narrow it down.”

“You been waiting here?” Clara asks. On her rooftop? Has he been following her? Is her nest compromised?

“I’ve been hopeful,” the man says.

“I’m still not 18,” Clara says.

“No, but 17’s close enough,” the man says.

She frowns at him and another emotion she doesn’t recognize flashes across his face.

“Your birthday was last week,” he says.

“Oh.”

She hears an alarm go off in an open window, the too loud kind that means whoever owns it sleeps through their alarm a lot. She startles but doesn’t loose her arrow. She should, though. People are going to start waking up. Someone’s going to notice the standoff on the roof.

“Why don’t we discuss this over breakfast,” the man suggests. “Your arm can’t keep that bow drawn on me forever, and we haven’t even begun to talk about who I work for.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” Clara says.

On the one hand, he’s offering food. On the other, she can’t bring her bow and he can bring his gun. Also, he’s still a stranger.

“I know,” he says.

She doesn’t like the reminder that he knows things about her, that he’s been following her.

“Nobody’ll let me into their place.”

“They will if I’m with you,” the man says. He looks her over. “Well, the place I have in mind will. Do you like pancakes?”

She hasn’t had pancakes since the circus. Rocky always overcooked them and the only way to choke them down was to drown them in syrup until they softened enough to chew.

Clara shrugs. “They’re alright.”

“The pancakes at Luchello’s are better than alright,” the man promises.

Clara knows she’s going to go. He’s offering food, and if they’re in a public place then he won’t try anything funny. He probably won’t risk shooting her in a building full of people, either. Still, what’s she going to do with her bow? And her pigeons?

“Do they let people bring their bows in?” Clara asks.

“Afraid not,” the man says. “I have a car.”

Clara laughs and he smiles good naturedly, like he didn’t expect she’d store her bow with him. The pigeons are an acceptable loss. It’ll be easy to get more.

“I have to make a stop on the way then,” she says.

“Of course,” the man says, like it’s normal in his life for people to stash bows on their way to breakfast.

She leads him to the library and then makes him stay on the ground while she goes up to hide it in the vent. No one will think to look for it there. She thinks about taking the opportunity to lose the man, to start running, but he obviously found her before, and she’d have to really run to get away from him.

She’s not ready to pick up everything and leave. She just got a fridge.

She’ll hear him out and eat as much food as he’ll pay for and if she doesn’t like what he has to say, then she’ll worry about running on a full stomach.

Plan in place, she goes back to where she left him outside the library.

He looks a little surprised that she came back.

“I want bacon, too,” she says.

“Of course.”

Her eyes narrow, suspicious. “And eggs.”

She hasn’t had eggs in  _ forever _ . They’re hard to steal from people’s kitchens. Too fragile.

“Whatever you want,” he says.

She laughs, because this man is stupid, offering her as much food as she wants.

“As much as you can eat without getting sick,” the man amends. When she laughs again, he shrugs. “It’s my boss’s credit card.”

“He know what you’re spending his money on?”

“Who do you think sent me to find you?”

She’s quiet for a moment, considering this, as they walk down the sidewalk. It’s still too early to see too many people on the streets, but she walks by where her favorite taco stand will be set up later in the day.

“I should be your niece,” Clara decides as the man motions for her to turn at a corner. He doesn’t touch her. She likes him a little bit better.

“Pardon?” the man asks.

Clara rolls her eyes. “You’re gonna get weird looks bringing someone like me into a fancy place. And I’m not calling you Dad.”

“But you’ll call me uncle?” The man looks amused again.

“Ha. You can call me niece. Once.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

The diner blends in with the rest of the buildings on the street, the only difference the red and white striped things over the windows. Clara still isn’t convinced that they’re going to let her in, because her sneakers are falling apart, and she smells like a teenage boy - sweat and too much deodorant - but the man just smiles politely at the hostess and asks for a booth for him and his niece and that’s that.

“I like Luchello’s because they cater to the early morning crowd,” the man says when they’re seated with their menus. “They’re a 24-hour diner.”

Clara ignores him, too busy looking at all the food options. Hotdogs and burgers and sandwiches and fish and two whole pages of breakfast. She’ll never admit it, but it’s a little overwhelming. Her stomach starts to cramp with all the possibilities.

She flips the menu over, and her mouth drops because it’s a whole page of dessert.

“No,” the man says.

She immediately scowls. “You said whatever I can eat.”

“Something healthy first,” the man amends. “Something with protein and then a fruit or a vegetable and then we can get dessert.”

She goes back to looking at the menu. “Does lettuce count as a vegetable?”

“Not if it’s only one piece on a burger.”

She lowers the menu enough to glare at him. “Your rules are stupid.”

He shrugs. “I like rules.”

“Only boring people like rules.”

She could get an omelet - eggs filled with vegetables. That covers healthy. The omelet even comes with a pancake and her choice of breakfast meat. Does she want sausage or bacon? One of each?

“Clara, do you know what you want?”

She startles at the use of her name, and she’s about to glare at the man when she realizes they have company. There’s a waitress at their table with enough makeup to hide how tired she is and a notepad out.

Clara forces herself to smile. Polite, nice. It’s a mask she hasn’t had to wear in a long time.

“May I please have a southwestern omelet?” she asks. She allows herself a small smile when she sees that she’s surprised the man again.

“Pancake okay?”

Clara nods.

“And what kind of meat?”

“Both?” Clara asks.

The waitress nods. “Of course, honey.”

As soon as the woman turns to the man, Clara glares.

“She’ll have an orange juice and a water to drink,” the man says. “And I’ll have the starter. Blueberry pancakes, eggs scrambled, and bacon well-done. And coffee please. Regular.”

“I’ll put that right in for you,” the woman says.

“Orange juice?” Clara asks as soon as the woman is gone. She has to keep her voice low, because they’re the only patrons right now, and she doesn’t want anyone listening in.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll drink it,” the man says.

Ha. He ordered it for her. That means it’s hers.

“So,” she says. “You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Coulson,” he answers.

“That sounds like a last name.”

“It is.”

Fine. She flips over her menu and takes a crayon out of the cup near the napkins.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Coloring,” she says. Duh. “I ain’t talking about anything else until I have my food.”

If she doesn’t like what he has to say then she’s going to run, and she wants to make sure she gets a good meal out of it first.

“Clara,” he says.

“ _ Coulson _ .”

She draws a picture of herself standing on the acrobat platform flinging peanuts at the elephants with a rubber band. It’s not the best picture, because there’s no gray crayon so the elephants are a hazy black and she’s a purple stick figure and, well, it’s a bad picture because she’s a bad artist but it’s something to do.

Coulson doesn’t try to talk to her until the food comes, and the first time he opens his mouth once all the plates are on the table, she glares at him and steals one of his pieces of bacon.

He opens his mouth again, to protest, and her fingers are already creeping towards his plate again when he moves it out of her reach.

“You have your own,” he says.

He sounds almost like he’s  _ pouting _ and Clara grins, delighted, and starts in on her food. Her orange juice is gone, done in three big gulps when she first got it, but that means she can put as much syrup on her pancake as she wants without ruining the juice.

She wolfs down her pancake and all her bacon and sausage and she’s halfway through with her omelet (it’s the size of her forearm, this place is the  _ best _ ) when Coulson clears his throat.

“Am I allowed to speak now?”

She looks over at his food. He’s eaten his bacon, probably afraid she’d take it, and he’s halfway through a stack of three blueberry pancakes, but he still has most of his scrambled eggs and a small pile of hashbrowns left.

She still has her omelet but the potatoes look good.

He sighs and forks some onto her plate.

“My name’s Coulson,” he tells her and she rolls her eyes, because she already knows that. “Agent Coulson.”

She’s probably supposed to be impressed. Instead she says, “Bond. James Bond,” in a deep voice because Barney dragged her to one of those movies once. It was a classic theater which meant they played really old movies but they were cheap and the seats were comfy and they had enough money left over to split a popcorn.

Barney ate most of it.

“Not quite,”  _ Agent _ Coulson says, not looking as amused as she is.

“So you’re not a spy?”

“Not in the way you’re probably thinking,” Agent Coulson says.

“A spy wouldn’t admit to being a spy,” Clara says.

“And you’re a spy expert?”

Clara shrugs. All kids know about spies. She might not have read a lot in the circus, but she saw a lot of old movies. They had a reel and everything and when they showed ‘em on the Big Top, well, it was bigger than any theater she’s been to.

“I work for an agency called SHIELD.”

“Stupid name.”

Agent Coulson stops trying to keep a neutral face. He gives her a look of disapproval that would fit better on someone’s dad than on him. He’s too young to make it work.

“What?” Clara asks. “It is. So you’re spies. Is that why you have a gun?”

“Among other reasons,” Agent Coulson says.

“You must not be very good with it,” Clara says.

His right eye twitches. She must be getting to him.

“Why else would you want me?” Clara asks. “I never miss. It’s kinda my thing.”

“I know,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara leans forward, all her previous amusement gone. “I know you know. Which means you want me for your shady not-a-spy, stupid-name agency to shoot people. I don’t want to shoot people.”

Agent Coulson looks impressed. Clara wants to kick his shins a few times and run out.

She also wants dessert. She didn’t eat an omelet filled with peppers for nothing.

“You don’t want to shoot people or you don’t want to kill people?” Agent Coulson asks.

Clara shifts from aggressive to wary. “You offer jobs to a lot of 17 year olds who want to kill people?”

“I can’t discuss other recruits with you,” Agent Coulson says.

“Definitely a spy,” Clara says. “You saying you would let me work for you, and you wouldn’t make me kill people?”

“One,” Agent Coulson says, “we don’t kill people for fun. And we don’t kill a lot of people. Two, deciding where your moral line is is an individual decision and something we take very seriously.”

“So...no?” Clara asks.

“No,” Agent Coulson says. “We wouldn’t make you kill people.”

“I still don’t really know what you do do,” Clara says.

She can’t believe they’re still having this conversation.

She looks over at the counter where a glass bowl shows off three different kinds of pie. Oh right. That’s why.

“I help people,” Agent Coulson says, all earnest and serious and like an afterschool special.

Clara laughs.

Agent Coulson briefly looks hurt. “I help a lot of people, actually. And right now, I’m looking to help you.”

“By hiring me to not kill people,” Clara says.

“There are nonlethal ways to take someone out with an arrow,” Agent Coulson says, “and you can always use a paralytic to take a target out. Or an exploding arrow to create a distraction.”

Clara stops plotting how to take the last of Agent Coulson’s pancakes. “Exploding arrows?”

Agent Coulson shrugs like it isn’t a big deal. “We’ve got a big R&D division. They’re inventing new kinds of ammunition all the time. Right now we don’t have a big need for different kinds of arrows, but that could change.”

He means if she agrees to work with them. She still doesn’t understand what working with them means.

“SHIELD protects people,” Agent Coulson says, like he finally realizes he hasn’t explained anything. “Sometimes we protect one person, like a scientist who’s being threatened, or an informant who is now being targeted by the terrorists she informed on. Sometimes we protect projects - a hospital that wants to help people but who have vaccinations that could be weaponized, or a farm that’s a threat to the local dictatorship because it allows the people to be fed and, when they know where their next meal is coming from, they find the dictator less of a necessity than he’d like to be. Sometimes we protect entire countries or continents. Sometimes we have to protect the world.”

Clara was with him on the people - saving people would be cool, and she was even with him on the farm thing, but he lost her after that. By the time he got to the end, she’s trying not to laugh, because he has been nice to her and she doesn't want to hurt his feelings too bad.

“You want me to save the world?” she asks, unbelieving.

“We’d start small,” Agent Coulson says.

She laughs. “You clearly know who I am. My brother and I ran away from home and joined the circus. I ran away from the circus, and I’ve been eating pigeons and dumpster pizza for who only knows how long. I’m pretty fucking proud of myself because I just got a refrigerator, and you think I’m the person who can help save the world?”

“With the right training,” Agent Coulson says, serious, like he doesn’t understand what a giant joke this all is.

“You’re fucking nuts,” she tells him.

“We’ve got a training facility,” Agent Coulson says. “There are dorms, so you’d have a place to sleep, your own room. The showers are communal, but accessible at any time. We have a cafeteria so you wouldn’t be hungry. And the training facility itself; well, I think you’d like it. Gyms for hand-to-hand combat and weapon sparring. A rock climbing wall. A full set of gymnastic equipment, not to mention an Olympic-sized pool and fully-stocked weight training room.”

Clara’s mouth falls open.

“We don’t just slap a badge on you and let you loose,” Agent Coulson says. “There’s a lot that goes into being an agent, including a bunch of physical tests. And since you’re not 18 yet, you wouldn’t even be allowed to start probationary agent training.”

“So I’d just sit in a room?” she asks. “I mean, if I was interested.”

“You would have access to most of the practice areas,” Agent Coulson says, “Supervised, of course, but you wouldn’t be in a formal agent-in-training course.”

“I could just run around all day? Swim and rock climb and do whatever I wanted?”

“There would be some expectations,” Agent Coulson says.

Of course, she thinks, deflating. Don’t get too excited. Anything that sounds too good is too good.

“Some private lessons since you didn’t finish school. Maybe a few other things. But yes, most of the day would be yours to do what you want. Oh, there’s another area I forget to mention. A fully-outfitted, state-of-the-art shooting range.”

Clara’s eyes snap to his.

“The targets move,” Agent Coulson says. “Well, they can. Once you’re ready for that stage.”

“You’d let me bring my bow?” Clara asks.

“Why take away what makes you, you?” Agent Coulson asks. “We might make one that’s a bit more efficient for you to try out, but you can still keep the one you have now.”

All the food she ate suddenly sits heavy in her stomach. This is too good. Good things don’t happen to her. She thought training with Trick was good, but he only wanted to train her for other things - pickpocketing, outright stealing. She thought her gig at the circus was good, but the ringmaster was just using her to bring in people to steal from.

And this is way better than both those things.

“You could come try it out,” Agent Coulson says. “And if you don’t like it, then you can leave. We won’t bother you.”

Clara laughs. “You’ve followed me since the circus, and I’m supposed to believe you’ll just walk away if I ask?”

“We’ll keep an eye on you,” Agent Coulson says, “because we’re not the only ones who’re interested in what you can do with a bow, but we won’t try to recruit you again.”

“What happens if I sign up with someone else?” She’s never been wanted like this before. Are there really a bunch of agencies out there with files on her? She doesn’t know whether that scares her or makes her want to puff her chest out.

“Depends on who you sign with,” Agent Coulson says. “Most of them will use blackmail, intimidation, torture, or money to make you do things our agency doesn’t approve of. Things you probably won’t want to do either. In that case, we arrest you or, if you prove to be too big a threat, we kill you.”

Yeah, she thinks, deflating. Mark her down as scared.

“But you won’t do that?” she asks. “The torture and blackmail and stuff?”

“That’s the stuff we’re trying to stop,” Agent Coulson tells her.

She has no reason to trust him and about a thousand not to, but she’s going to take him up on his offer anyways. She’s never been good at thinking ahead. She can plan as long as it’s for that day or maybe the day after. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do in the city.

Yeah, she’s got a refrigerator and an electric blanket. Big fucking deal. She can lose them both in seconds. She could end up like Agatha, frozen to death on a bench with no one around to care. Agent Coulson is offering her a bed and food. She knows he’s going to want something for it in return, probably for her to shoot people, but she can deal with that later.

She’ll go there, eat their food, sleep warm in their beds, learn everything she can, and when the price gets to be too high, she’ll leave. Just like the circus. Only she’ll be better off.

“I want pie,” she says, “and then I want to you to tell me about this trial period.”

Agent Coulson smiles. “I can do that.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clara makes Agent Coulson stand on the steps of the library again when she retrieves her bow, but she doesn’t make him stand out of sight when she goes to her apartment. It doesn’t matter if he sees the nest, because she’s not going to leave anything valuable and some building inspector will probably find it and clear it out while she’s gone.

She packs her bow, her book, her electric blanket and what toiletries she has, and then swings down the fire escape to where Agent Coulson is waiting.

He looks at her duffel bag, the same one she brought with her from the circus, and then at her, and she can see the moment he thinks about offering to carry it.

Her glare knocks that idea right out of his head, and she settles her bag over her shoulder and follows him to where he parked his car. He parked it legally, and it must’ve cost a fortune. Maybe even more than breakfast.

She’s a little worried about how much money he’s spending on her. She’s going to have to pay it back eventually, one way or another, and if he really doesn’t want her to kill people; well, she knows the two options Trick gave her for paying back what she owed him.

The car is navy blue and has four doors and five seats and doesn’t look anything like what James Bond drove in any of the movies.

“Your car’s boring,” she tells him.

“Something tells me I’m going to regret a five-hour car ride with you,” Agent Coulson says.

“Depends,” Clara says. “Have any good music?”

“Definitely going to regret this,” Agent Coulson says, but he doesn’t sound like he really means it so Clara laughs and gets into the car. She keeps her bag on her lap in case she needs to jump and run.

~*~

She doesn’t run on the way to DC, even though they stop twice to go to the bathroom and she could easily have slipped away. This SHIELD thing is a new adventure, and there’s adventure in her blood.

Her mom used to tell her that. It’s how Barney convinced her that joining the circus was the right thing to do. The circus was full of adventure. And New York was its own kind, but now it’s time to move on.

The second time they stop, Clara doesn’t have to pee. When she tells Agent Coulson this he shuts his eyes and tilts his head up at the car ceiling.

“I need a coffee,” he says, and then he leaves her in the car. He takes his keys and his wallet with him, but still. She wouldn’t have expected him to trust her like that.

He comes back from the little gas station with a giant cup of coffee, two little packets of donuts and a bottle of Sprite. The Sprite he gives to her. She eyes the donuts. There’s a sleeve with six powdered ones and a sleeve with six chocolate covered ones. Clara wonders if one of them’s for her. If Agent Coulson tries to keep them both for himself than she’s going to swipe them once he starts driving. He takes driving very seriously. He uses turn signals and everything.

Clara’s only driven tractors and the occasional hot-wired car, but Barney said that real drivers don’t use turn signals. Of course, Barney isn’t exactly a reliable source.

“I couldn’t decide which to get,” Agent Coulson says. “Split them three and three, and I’ll share.”

“What’s to stop me from taking more?” Clara asks, mostly just curious.

Agent Coulson shrugs. “Do you need more than six donuts?”

“I don’t need any donuts,” Clara says. “But I want them.”

“You can have six,” Agent Coulson says. “Three of each. Or you can have less.”

“Ha,” Clara says. She takes her six and means to make them last, but Agent Coulson’s been good about giving her food, and she’s not very good at saving things.

_ You’re talking to someone who wouldn’t know how to save her money if her life depended on it. _

Barney’s words echo around her head, louder and louder until she claps her hands over her ears to try and block them out. It doesn’t work.

“Sorry,” Agent Coulson says, his voice loud enough that he’s trying to be heard. “I’ll change the station.”

He fiddles with the radio, and Clara slowly lowers her hands, Barney’s voice gone.

“You promised no stupid music,” she grumbles, only half-heartedly, because it wasn’t the music she didn’t want to hear.

Agent Coulson shrugs. “I’m not perfect.”

“No one’s perfect,” Clara says.

She curls up in her seat and pretends to sleep. Agent Coulson lets her be and even starts to hum along with the radio.

~*~

“You’re not going to blindfold me when you bring me into your secret lair?” Clara asks when they reach headquarters. She regrets the question right away. She doesn’t want to be blindfolded. She’ll run or fight if they try. She shouldn’t have brought it up.

“No blindfolds,” Agent Coulson says. “We’re a powerful government agency. If we can’t protect our secrets from trainees then we don’t deserve to have secrets.”

They walk through the front doors, which Clara thinks is weird. She expected hidden entrances or tunnels or air vents or  _ something _ .

“Is this going to be really boring?” she asks.

A balding man near them chokes on his coffee and laughs.

“Afternoon, Agent Sitwell,” Agent Coulson says mildly.

Clara looks from Agent Sitwell to Agent Coulson. “Am I gonna lose my hair, too? There was a woman in the circus with us for a bit who didn’t have any hair. On her head. She had a bunch under her arms. And on her legs. Couldn’t grow a beard though, so the ringmaster tossed her out.”

“I keep my armpits neatly trimmed,” Sitwell says. “All agents have to. Part of the rulebook.”

“Bullshit,” Clara says.

“She’s a sharp one,” Sitwell says. “You bringing her to the director?”

“Yes, and he’s expecting us. Don’t want to be late.”

“Good luck,” Sitwell tells her. He raises his coffee cup to her in a toast.

“Do all agents have to drink coffee?” Clara asks as she follows Coulson to an elevator.

“Part of the reason you can’t sign up until you’re 18,” Agent Coulson says, “All the coffee will stunt your growth.”

Clara laughs. “Good for me that I’m done growing.”

“Well, maybe lay off the coffee for a few years anyways,” Agent Coulson says. “There’ll be plenty of other things to drink.”

“Juice?” Clara wonders.

Agent Coulson pulls out a badge to be scanned and then presses the number 9. He doesn’t move away from her, even though the elevator’s small and she knows she doesn’t smell good. At least she smells better than when she hid out in the animal tent.

“All kinds. Grape, orange, apple. I think cranberry maybe. I’m not a big juice drinker.”

When they get off the elevator they’re on a floor full of offices. This building is ruining spy movies for her. Some of the offices have windows, like the one that says  _ Jasper Sitwell _ on the door.

“He was in the lobby,” Clara says. “Do you have an office too?”

The very next office says  _ Phil Coulson _ . His blinds are down.

“Phil’s a nice name,” Clara says. “Do you and Sitwell have a door between your offices like they do in hotel rooms sometimes?”

“ _ Agent _ Sitwell and I do not have a connecting door,” Agent Coulson tells her. “He likes to throw a tennis ball against our shared wall when he’s bored.”

There are a bunch of meeting rooms between the smaller offices and the bigger offices. There are a bunch of names she doesn’t know and then a door that says  _ Director Nick Fury _ .

Agent Coulson goes in without knocking, and Clara’s impressed until she sees how small the room is. There’s a desk taking up most of the space and a young man behind it. Too young to be director, Clara thinks.

“Afternoon, Robert,” Agent Coulson says. “We’re here to see Director Fury.”

Clara peers around the computer on the desk to watch Robert press a button on what looks like a speaker. “Director, Agent Coulson and his asset are here to see you.”

“I’m not yours,” Clara says, turning to glare at Coulson. “You can’t own people.”

She looks around the room. Too small. No easy escape. She knows Agent Coulson has a gun on him. Probably this Robert guy does too. She takes a step back, already letting her bag slip off her shoulder so she can get to her bow.

“Clara,” Agent Coulson begins, but he’s interrupted by a door behind the desk opening.

Clara’s reaching for her bow when the tall, dark-skinned man emerges from the room. He’s wearing a full length black leather trench coat, and he has an eye patch.

“Holy shit,” Clara says.

“No need to draw your weapon,” Director Fury tells her. “Besides, bows aren’t made for close quarters.”

“You’ve never seen me use one then,” Clara says.

“No,” the Director agrees, “I haven’t. I’m hearing that might change. You ready to come in for your meeting?”

She’s wary, looking from Fury to Agent Coulson and back. “I don’t belong to nobody but myself.”

Fury looks over at Agent Coulson. “You said everything was handled.”

“I told you I was bringing th -  _ Clara _ in as requested.”

Fury shakes his head. “Come in for your meeting or get out. I’m a busy man.”

It’s a bit of a shock, how dismissive he is, and it reminds Clara of Trickshot’s trailer.

_ But you’re getting old. An eighteen year old or, worse, someone in their twenties, that never misses a shot? That’s just practice. Nothing special about it. _

She’s not special. Agent Coulson probably brings in someone who can shoot every month. Maybe even every week. Must be every week if the Fury can just turn his back and walk out on her. She can’t let him walk. This is her chance. She doesn’t want to go back on the streets. She doesn’t want to go back to being alone.

“Sorry, sir,” she mumbles, words dragged out of her just like every time she said them to Dad, hoping they didn’t come too late. Sometimes he liked it when she hung her head and acted sorry. Sometimes talking just reminded him she was there and got her hit again.

Fury goes back to his office, but he leaves the door open. Clara scrambles to her feet to follow. Agent Coulson’s eyes stay on her the whole time.

This office is much bigger than the one leading into it. There’s even a bigger desk. There’s a cushioned chair behind the desk and two wooden ones in front of it. Either Fury doesn’t like company or he doesn’t like them to stay long.

Clara sits down in one of the chairs and clasps her hands in her lap.

“Agent Coulson tells me you’re interested in a trial period with SHIELD,” Fury says.

Clara nods.

“Agent Coulson has also expressed his displeasure with recruiting children, so a trial period is all you get until you’re 18.”

Clara scowls. “I’m not a kid.”

Fury’s one eye looks over her short, choppy hair, the hard set of her mouth, and the dirty clothes she’s in. “Not in some ways. The law disagrees and so does Coulson. Things must have been rough if he decided to bring you in before you were old enough to sign.”

She thinks this comment is directed more to Agent Coulson than her, but she doesn't like being talked over. “I was doing fine.”

“Mm,” Fury says, and she’s not sure whether that’s agreement or disagreement. “Agent Coulson, as you’re so concerned about Miss Barton’s treatment here at SHIELD, I’m assigning you to her case.”

“Sir?” Agent Coulson asks, a waver in his usually steady voice. “I’m assigned to asset retrieval.”

“Were,” Fury says. “Now that you’ve retrieved Miss Barton you’re assigned to Trainee Supervision.”

“Yes, sir,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara turns to Agent Coulson. “You were going to drop me off and leave me?”

She doesn’t do a very good job hiding her hurt.

Why are you surprised, part of her sneers. You’re nothing special. Fury knew the moment he saw you. Agent Coulson probably did too.

Clara drops her eyes to the floor.

“You’re not going to like being my trainee,” Agent Coulson tells her. “I have high expectations.”

Not special. Not good enough.

Maybe Clara should’ve run at that second rest stop after all.

“Right,” Agent Coulson says. He clears his throat. “If we’re dismissed, Director, I have a trainee to find a room for.”

“Enjoy,” Fury says.

Clara doesn’t talk to Agent Coulson the whole ride down to level 2. He doesn’t try to talk to her either. She drags her feet as she follows him down a hallway that has a lot more rooms than the hallway on 9. These ones don’t have names on them either, just numbers.

Every once in a while there’ll be a room with a picture of a girl or a guy on it.

“Communal bathrooms and showers,” Agent Coulson explains.

Clara nods.

When they get to room 27, Agent Coulson swipes his card like a hotel and the lock clicks open. He opens the door and pushes it open.

“This is your room.”

The first thing Clara does is open the door all the way so Agent Coulson can’t shut her in. The next thing she does is inspect the door for a lock beyond the card.

“I’m getting you an ID card made right now,” Agent Coulson says. “We’ll have to get your picture taken, but I thought you might want to get cleaned up first. Your ID card will let you into any door you’re authorized for.”

“And you’re authorized for my room?” Clara asks.

“I’m now your handler,” Agent Coulson says.

“Who else can get in?”

“The Director, because he has a master key, but he never comes down here.”

Clara’s patient, waiting for more names. They don’t come. “Anyone else?”

“No,” Agent Coulson tells her. “This is your room. I only have access in case of emergency.”

Her room.

It’s a strange concept.

It’s one big room, but there are some jutting walls that divide it into three areas. The first area, where they entered, is empty. She’s not sure what it’s supposed to be for. To the right there’s a half wall, one that you can see over, and on the other side of that is a kitchen. She rushes over, touches the stove top then the oven. There’s a fridge taller than she is, and she pets the handles before she realizes what she’s doing.

She has a fridge again.

She forces herself away from that find and wanders over to the third part of the room. There’s a wall that stretches halfway across the room and on the other side of it is a bed, a little table next to the bed with a lamp, and a dresser.

She has a bed.

Her own bed.

She sits down on it. It’s soft. Better than the lumpy couch cushions. She checks near the lamp and finds an open outlet. It’ll be easy to hook her electric blanket up.

She looks around from her bed. She can’t see the door she came in from here, but there’s another door, across from the bed. She gets up to investigate. She opens it and her mouth falls open. She waits until she’s got herself under control to look over her shoulder at Agent Coulson.

“I thought this was my room.”

“It is,” he says.

She points to the clothes in the closet. There are five t-shirts, gray with SHIELD printed across them in big navy blue block letters, two long sleeve shirts with the same writing, a sweatshirt with what she assumes is the SHIELD logo, five pairs of shorts, two pairs of cargo pants, and one pair of sweatpants.

“These aren’t mine,” she says.

“They are,” he tells her.

She needs to sit down again. This is more clothes than she’s ever had in her life.

“The things in the dresser are yours too.”

She looks up at him, he’s moved into her line of sight, and then goes to look in the dresser. There are white socks and simple grey underwear, a few pairs in black, as well. There are sports bras and two regular bras and what looks like spandex. In the last drawer there’s a fresh tube of toothpaste, toothbrush, hairbrush, shampoo, and soap. None of it’s been opened before. There are other things too, and she almost cries when she sees the box of tampons and the other one of pads.

Most of the time when she was in the city she had to make do with stuffing her underwear with toilet paper and not traveling too far from the library’s bathroom. This is - this is -

“This is too much,” Clara says. She abruptly shuts the doors. She can’t do this. This costs way too much. She’ll have to - no, she doesn’t want to think about what she’ll have to do to keep it.

“It’s standard for anyone who joins,” Agent Coulson tells her.

She had to kill seven pigeons to get a pair of gloves for the winter. How does she explain that there’s no amount of pigeons she can kill to trade for even one of the things in here?

You’ll have to kill something bigger than pigeons, part of her says.

Stay, take what you can get, then run, a different part says. That voice sounds like Barney.

“They’re really mine?” Clara asks. Her arms are wrapped tight around her middle, a dangerous stance if she gets attacked.

Agent Coulson nods.

“I get to keep them?”

He seems to understand what she’s asking. “At the end of your trial period, if you decide SHIELD isn’t right for you, then you can bring all your clothes with you when you leave.”

She considers this. About a year of living here, eating their food and sleeping in their bed, and she gets to keep all her clothes. She’s going to have to keep her eyes open. There has to be a catch somewhere.

“You should shower,” Agent Coulson tells her, “and change, and then we can get you your ID picture. After that I can give you the basic tour, and then I can show you the cafeteria just in time for dinner.”

She perks up at the thought of more food. She’s still pretty full from breakfast, but the cafeteria’s a big test. If they don’t have good food or at least not a lot of it, then she’s out of here.

She forces a shrug. “Okay.”

“There should be a towel in your dresser,” Agent Coulson tells her. “Two, actually. So you’ll have one even when you’re doing laundry. I’ll have to show you the laundry. It’s right next to the shower. Your keycard will get you in. Uh,” here he hesitates, “I can show you how to do laundry.”

“I know how,” she says. “Only costs a couple quarters.”

“Good,” Agent Coulson says. “I mean, if there’s anything you don’t understand you can ask me.”

“You know how to do laundry?” Clara asks. In the circus, it was something the women were always stuck with. And she doesn’t think her dad ever touched the washing machine when they lived there. “Aren’t there any girl agents?”

“Every agent is responsible for his or her own room and belongings,” Agent Coulson tells her. “And when I turned sixteen my mother told me I was responsible for my own laundry.”

“You have a mom?” Clara asks. “Does she know you’re a spy?”

“Kind of. She knows that I can’t talk about the work I do.”

“Huh.” Clara gets a towel, her soap, and her shampoo out of her dresser.

“While you shower I’m going to stop by my office,” Agent Coulson tells her. “I’ll wait outside your room. Whenever you’re ready just come out.”

“Okay.”

She picks out a fresh pair of socks and underwear and a sports bra. She also takes out a pair of long spandex pants and goes to her closet to get a t-shirt. She’ll have to reorganize her clothes later.

She has enough clothes to have to organize them.

She laughs, a little giddy.

It isn’t until she looks up, self-conscious, that she realizes Agent Coulson is gone.

It’s weird walking down the hallway, all her new things clutched in her arms and her old things back in her room. She wonders if she should’ve brought her bow, and not just her knife. She still hasn’t seen anyone on this floor. Coincidence? On purpose?

When she gets to the bathroom it’s empty, and she takes in the four toilet stalls, the four sinks and then, on the other side of the room, four shower stalls, all with their own dividers and curtains.

Clara’s glad for the privacy and she goes into the furthest stall from the door. The stall is extra long, a bench near the front for all her stuff, far enough away from the spray to be protected from the water. She turns on the water and starts stripping, putting her knife in the cavity for the soap in case she ends up needing it.

The water is hot and the shower feels as good as her first shower in 4B. She doesn’t let it last too long, because even if the hot water is amazing, she’s vulnerable here and she doesn’t like that feeling. She gets herself clean because there wouldn’t be much point to the shower if she didn’t and then gets changed.

Getting into clean, never-worn-before clothes feels even better than the shower.

She carries everything back to her room, glad to see Agent Coulson outside of it, because that’s when she realizes she can’t get back in without him. He seems to realize the same thing, and he looks sheepish as he slides his card to open the door.

“I didn’t think of that,” he says.

Clara gets the impression there aren’t a lot of things he doesn’t think about.

“We’re going to fix it,” she says.

“True,” he says.

He stays in the hallway as she goes into her room.

_ Her _ room. She’s not sure she’ll ever get over it.

She puts her dirty clothes in a basket at the foot of her bed. Her towel she hangs over her closet door. She pokes around her closet until she finds shoes. Two pair of running shoes and one pair of sturdier boots. She puts on the running shoes.

She stashes her bow under her bed and resolves to find a good hiding place for it tonight.

She feels a little weird in the new clothes, weird with SHIELD written in bold letters across her chest, but she also kind of likes it. Agent Coulson isn’t wearing a SHIELD t-shirt, but he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who wears t-shirts.

“Do you sleep in the suit?” she asks, following him back down the hallway.

“No,” he says.

Her favorite part of her outfit is the spandex pants. It’s almost like being in the circus again. They’re not outrageously purple, but they’re still mobile, and that’s the first thing she looks for in clothes.

“Do you have a room here?”

“I do. I also have an apartment. Senior agents are allowed to live off base. Some junior agents are as well.”

“What about trainees?”

Agent Coulson gives her a look as he leads her into the elevator. “Trainees stay in their assigned room.”

Not a big loss. It’s better than anywhere she’s lived before. “So everyone on my floor is a new agent?”

“Everyone on your floor is an agent-in-training,” Agent Coulson explains. “Floor 2 is junior agents. Their quarters are bigger. They have their own showers.”

Clara’s eyes grow wide. “How long do I have to be here for that?”

“Let’s start with making it through your trial period. Floor 4 is HR. It’s where you go for anything pay related, requisition forms, anything of that nature.”

Clara’s still stuck on the first part. “Pay?”

“Yes,” Agent Coulson says, apparently unaware of her stare. “After your trial period you can train to be an agent. Once you’re an agent-in-training you’ll receive a salary. We’ll have to work out something for your trial period. You should get a small stipend at least.”

The elevator doors open and Clara follows him on autopilot. “What’s a stipend?”

“A small fund given to someone for things they need,” Agent Coulson tells her.

She has no idea what she would spend money on, they’ve given her everything she needs, but she keeps her mouth shut. She’s not going to say no to free money. She’s not stupid.

Agent Coulson turns into the second door on their left. “Afternoon, Ms. Watson.”

A woman with thick red curls and glasses looks up from her computer. “Agent Coulson, good to see you. Ah, you’ve brought me a friend?”

“This is Clara Barton,” Agent Coulson introduces, stepping aside so Clara’s fully visible. “I sent you an email about her ID?”

“Of course,” Ms. Watson says. “Welcome to SHIELD, Clara. I made Agent Coulson’s ID when he came to SHIELD.”

Clara looks over at Agent Coulson. “You were a trainee, too?”

Ms. Watson laughs. “Hardly. He came special.” She winks like she’s telling Clara some kind of secret.

Clara doesn’t get it.

“I transferred,” Agent Coulson explains. “Ms. Watson, her photo, please?”

“Yes, yes,” Ms. Watson says. “Come here, dear. Stand in front of the camera and smile. Just like your license.”

Clara doesn’t have her license, but she doesn’t say that. She just stands and smiles like she’s supposed to. A couple minutes later, Ms. Watson hands her a card on a string just like Agent Coulson’s. Only hers says  _ Trainee Barton _ and has her picture on it.

She clutches the string, thicker really than string, thick enough for SHIELD and the logo to be written across it a couple times.

“How are you spies if you stick your name everywhere?” Clara asks. She hangs her ID around her neck like a weird necklace.

Ms. Watson laughs. “I like her.”

“Time to tour the practice facilities,” Agent Coulson says.

~*~

By the time they’re done touring the 5th and 6th floors, Clara’s hungry and a little overwhelmed. But mostly hungry.

“So all of this I can get to with my card,” Clara says as he brings her up to the 7th floor where the cafeteria is. She’s expecting a giant room full of food when they step off the elevator, and she’s a little disappointed to see another hallway full of doors.

It’s not as long as the hallway on her floor, and there’s a set of double doors at the end.

“Classrooms,” Agent Coulson explains. “You’ll spend some time here. Cafeteria’s all the way down the hall. And the card gives you access depending on the time of day and behavior.”

“Behavior?” Clara asks.

“The practice facilities are a privilege,” Agent Coulson says, “and privileges can be revoked.”

She doesn’t like the sound of that. She decides to let it drop for now. She has more questions, but they all die in her mouth when Agent Coulson opens the double doors. This is the room full of food she was expecting earlier.

It’s actually a room full of tables, but on the far side there’s what looks like a giant buffet. There are trays and then all kinds of different foods. She’s frozen in the entrance, no idea where to start.

“I’ll show you where to get the trays and then we can walk through each station,” Agent Coulson tells her. “There’s always a pizza station, a sandwich station, a grill station, and a pasta station, but the entree station changes for each meal.”

“What about dessert?” Clara asks.

Agent Coulson gives her a stern look. “Only open to trainees who eat a fruit and vegetable with each meal.”

“Ugh,” Clara says. “Does my card control that, too?”

“No,” Agent Coulson says, leading her over to where there are plates full of cake and pie and brownies and even cookies. “Evening, Charlie. This is my trainee, Clara. She’s not allowed to have anything from the dessert station unless you see a fruit and vegetable on her tray.” Agent Coulson smiles down at her. “I control that.”

“Ugh,” Clara says.

Charlie laughs, but it’s not mean-spirited. “He just wants to make sure you have a well-balanced meal. Everyone knows Agent Coulson’s a stickler for things like that.”

Agent Coulson looks proud at that, and Clara rolls her eyes and, deciding he’s being too slow, goes to investigate food. She obviously gets a slice of pizza, because it’s been too long. She actually gets two, one plain cheese and one loaded with peppers and broccoli and chicken.

“Vegetable,” she says when she passes by Agent Coulson on the way to the pasta.

When she meets him at a table, she barely has enough room on her tray for all her plates. She has two slices of pizza, a small bowl of pasta, a bacon cheeseburger, French fries, the smallest banana she could find, a brownie, three cookies, and a bowl of pudding.

Agent Coulson puts a glass of milk and a glass of water in front of her. “You ran out of hands,” he explains.

He doesn’t say anything about how full her tray is, just sits down to his boring sandwich. He didn’t even get chips with it. He got pretzels.

“Do all agents have to train?” she asks after polishing off her first piece of pizza. It’s as good as she remembers. She wonders if she can sneak any back to her room.

“I don’t understand,” Agent Coulson says.

“You showed me the pool and the weight room and all the stuff. Do you have to practice every day?”

“Ah,” Agent Coulson says. He wipes his hands on his napkin. “All agents are expected to keep in shape in case they’re needed on a mission. Some agents have specialities.”

“So you swim every day?”

“I run every day,” Agent Coulson tells her. “Easier to look over briefings and emails on the treadmill or elliptical. Some days I swim. I try to get some weightlifting in every week, and I make sure to keep up with my hand-to-hand combat and weapons training.”

He doesn’t look like he can do all those things. It’s probably the suit. Sneaky suit.

“Then why are you only eating a sandwich?” she asks. “You’re not going to get fat.”

There are other people in the cafeteria, more people than she’s seen since coming here. Most of them are keeping their distance, but they’ve all looked over, interested in either her or Agent Coulson, she can’t tell yet.

One of them, daring to get closer than the others, laughs when she hears what Clara says.

“Eavesdropping, Agent Clark?” Agent Coulson asks. “And not very well. Do you need a brush-up on basic reconnaissance?”

The smile drops off the woman’s face right away. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.” She takes her tray and finds a seat on the far side of the cafeteria.

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” Clara says, new respect for her handler. “I was telling the truth.”

“I like sandwiches,” Agent Coulson tells her. “My mother packed my lunch every day for school. It reminds me a little bit of that.”

Clara got free lunch at school. Dad said she should be embarrassed by it, but sometimes it was the only time she got to eat all day so she never let herself get too proud to get it. The last time she had milk she was in school. They didn’t get a lot of it at the circus. It went bad too fast and was too expensive.

She takes a big gulp from her glass.

“You talk about your mom a lot.”

“Do I?” Agent Coulson looks concerned about it.

“I like it,” Clara tells him. “You know everything about me. Only fair I get to know some things.”

“I don’t know everything,” Agent Coulson says, “but I’ll try to keep that in mind. What else do you want to know?”

“What’s on Floors 1 and 8? Those are the only ones we haven’t been on.”

“Floor 8 is R&D - research and development. You won’t need to go there for a while. Tomorrow, we’re going to Floor 1. That’s where medical is. You need to get a physical.”

Hospital. Clara shrinks in her seat. She doesn’t feel hungry anymore. “I’m not sick.”

“Physicals are like a check-up. Have you had one of those?”

She shrugs. She’s been to the emergency room a few times, but only when they absolutely had to.

“People go to the doctor when they’re sick,” Agent Coulson explains, “but they should also go once a year just to make sure their growth is on track and things like that.”

“Told you, done growing.” Not one to waste food, she shovels some pasta into her mouth.

“I’ll be there with you,” Agent Coulson tells her. “I mean, if you want me there. You won’t be alone.”

“I’m not scared of being alone.” Lie. She takes a bite out of her burger.

“But you don’t like hospitals.”

She scowls. “Not afraid of hospitals, either.”

“Good,” Agent Coulson says, “because we have an appointment tomorrow morning. Before breakfast.”

“That means early.”

“I found you shooting pigeons at 4am,” Agent Coulson tells her. “You’re used to early. There’s a clock in your room. I can show you how to set an alarm or I can knock on your door when it’s time to go.”

“Alarm,” she says. Then she frowns. “Knock? You have a card.”

“For emergencies,” he reminds her. “The room is yours. I want it to feel that way.”

Huh. She chews that over as she finishes her burger.

“Do I get to go to the shooting range tomorrow?”

“You have to get cleared by the doctor,” Agent Coulson. “That’s why I want to go first thing. Once you have your physical and get cleared, we can start planning your schedule.”

Looks like the doctor is unavoidable. It won’t be too bad. She’s been poked by doctors before. She just has to keep her head down, her mouth shut, and it’ll be over soon enough. And then she’ll get to shoot at the range.

Appetite returning, she attacks her second slice of pizza with gusto. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to past child abuse in this chapter.

Her alarm wakes her up at 6:30am, and she slaps at it until it stops making noise and then turns on the lamp next to her bed.

It took her a couple hours to fall asleep last night, the room too unfamiliar, the bed too comfortable. She finally managed to drift off after she pulled her bow out of its hiding place and fell asleep with it in her arms.

She takes her bow with her now as she checks her room to make sure no one snuck in during the night. All clear. And the chair she shoved under the doorknob is still there.

Good.

Confident that she’s alone in her room, she changes into a sports bra and new shirt. The leggings she doesn’t change. They didn’t get dirty yesterday. The shirt didn’t either, but she thinks Agent Coulson will be able to tell if she doesn’t change it.

There’s a pile of papers on the table in her kitchen, the ones Agent Coulson gave her at dinner last night. He called them requ - request forms? No, not long enough of a word. Whatever. They’re a bunch of copies of the same paper and they’re full of lists of things like shirts, shoes, socks, shampoo, everything she’s been given since she got here and even a few other things. She can use the form to get more things.

He explained that some agents like to buy their own shampoo or have “civvies” but Clara doesn’t understand why she would waste her money on things she could get for free. She didn’t tell him that, but eagerly accepted the blank copies of the form and the copy he gave her with the top information all filled out so she can see how it’s done.

Apparently she has a name and a number and all sorts of other information she has to give so they know it’s her requesting things. They keep track of these things which means Clara has to be careful with her requests. Will they deny her if she asks for too many shampoos in a month? Is there a limit to how many blankets she can have?

She didn’t ask those question last night, and she doesn’t plan on asking them today either.

She puts her ID necklace on and goes to wait outside her room until Agent Coulson shows up.

She doesn’t want to go to medical, but she doesn’t want all her new things taken away, and she gets the idea that medical isn’t an option.

The hallway is as dead as it was yesterday, and Clara’s really starting to wonder if she’s the only one living on the floor.

“Am I the only one living on the floor?” she asks as soon as Agent Coulson is in sight.

She pops to her feet, meeting him halfway down the hallway. He has a reusable coffee mug in his hand.

“Do you like live on coffee?”

“You’re not alone on the floor, and I enjoy my coffee,” Agent Coulson tells her.

He’s in another suit.

“Do you ever wear regular clothes?”

He ushers her towards the elevator, careful not to touch her. Now that she thinks about it, he hasn’t touched her once since meeting her. She wonders if he knows she’d break his fingers if he tried. Probably. He is a spy after all.

“This is why you can’t have coffee,” Agent Coulson tells her, pressing the 1 button. “You’ve got enough energy without it.”

Clara grins. “Not a morning person?”

“Late nights make early mornings a struggle,” Agent Coulson tells her.

It didn’t occur to her that he didn’t just go to bed after dinner the way she did. It makes sense that she isn’t his only job.

“Am I getting in the way?” she asks. She won’t give him up, and she won’t give SHIELD up, but she can take up less time. She knows how to stay out of the way. Being a pain is the easiest way to get cut out.

The elevator dings and the doors open, but Agent Coulson doesn’t move right away.

“No. I always work long hours.”

She doesn’t quite trust him. But she smiles and steps out of the elevator, ignoring the way her entire body tightens when the sharp, tangy scent of  _ hospital _ hits her nose. At least this doesn’t smell like old people, just sick people. Or, air freshener trying to hide sick people.

The walls are white, almost blinding after the grey everywhere else in the building. She turns to look back at Agent Coulson.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” she says.

She doesn’t want to lead. She’s not sure she can. Dragging her feet behind someone in a hospital? That she can do. Has done.

“This way,” Agent Coulson says, easily stepping in front of her.

They go in the first door, probably for the best, because Clara’s legs are already getting shaky. It’s a standard hospital room, a big mirror on one wall so there’s nowhere to hide, a bed with crinkly white paper spread across it.

She claps her hands behind her back so no one can see the way they shake.

“Good morning, Clara,” a woman in a white coat says. “My name is Doctor Lamar.”

Clara doesn’t like white coats.

“Did Agent Coulson tell you why you’re here today?”

Clara nods.

“A physical is standard for every new agent,” Dr. Lamar tells her, “and then they have one every year to make sure everything's working right. Now, you have a choice, here.”

Clara perks up at that. She can leave?

“Would you like Agent Coulson to stay or leave?” Dr. Lamar asks. “We’ll both leave when you change, but it’s up to you whether he comes back.”

Clara looks over at Agent Coulson. He’s watching her, steady, but not like there’s a right answer. Which means she actually has to think about it. Does she want him here? Dr. Lamar’s a stranger, but Agent Coulson is not much more than a stranger.

He hasn’t hurt her, though. Or touched her. Hasn’t even looked at her weird.

“He can stay. Unless you’re busy.”

“I left my morning clear,” Agent Coulson tells her.

Left his morning clear for her in case she needed him. She’s not sure what to do with that.

“Here,” Dr. Lamar says, handing her a hospital dress. At least it’s cloth and not the scratchy paper ones. “We’ll give you a minute to get changed. Just open the door once you’re ready, okay?”

She nods.

The two grown-ups leave, and she strips down to her underwear and then puts the gown on. At least the gowns don’t try to make anyone look good. It does mean she doesn’t have anywhere to stash her knife. She keeps her pile of clothes near her, which puts her knife in reaching distance. It’s not ideal but it’s better than nothing.

That done, she cracks the door open and goes back to sit on the bed. The paper crinkles. She hates it, because it means she has to be perfectly still. You can  _ hear _ fidgeting.

She doesn't even let herself swing her legs as Dr. Lamar and Agent Coulson come back in.

“Now, your medical history is a little spotty,” Dr. Lamar tells her. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. I want you to answer them the best you can. If you don’t know an answer, it’s okay.”

Clara nods dutifully. She already knows all the answers. I walked into a door. I fell down the stairs. My brother and I were goofing around. He didn’t mean to hurt me.  _ Really _ . And he didn’t. Because it was never Barney’s bruises she wore. Not back then. It wasn’t Barney who broke her arm or hit her so hard she smacked her face on the counter and needed stitches.

But no one tried to arrest a seven year old boy for horsing around with his little sister.

There was a reason Dad never came with her to the hospital. It was always Mom and Barney and both of them knew the right things to say and what they couldn’t say.

“I have records of hospital visits,” Dr. Lamar says, and Clara immediately tenses up, the crinkle of the paper giving her away, “so I don’t need to ask you about those, but are there things you didn’t go to the hospital for?”

Anything she didn’t  _ have _ to go for, Clara thinks. Too many visits were suspicious, and Mom knew how to splint things.

Clara shakes her head.

“You never got sick?” Dr. Lamar asks. “Maybe in the winter? A really bad cold that made your lungs hurt? A flu?”

Clara thinks about the time she got sick in the city. Is that what Dr. Lamar means? Is that safe to talk about?

“It doesn’t have to be when you were a kid,” Agent Coulson tells her. “Maybe when you were in the circus? Or after you left the circus?”

Getting sick isn’t anyone’s fault. No one can get in trouble for it. And Agent Coulson hasn’t been anything but good so far. “I got sick when I was in the city.”

“Can you describe it?” Dr. Lamar asks.

Clara tells the edited version, leaves out the parts where she couldn’t make it out to a bathroom so had to use her pot. Leaves out the parts where she hurt so bad and was so alone that she cried herself to sleep sometimes.

Dr. Lamar gets her to talk about being sick a couple more times and then tells Clara she’s going to have to give her some shots. She says it gently, like she thinks this is going to spook her.

Clara just shrugs and holds out her arm. Needles don’t hurt that bad. Then Clara has to put a heavy apron on for an x-ray. She’s had those before, but only when something was broken, so she doesn’t see why she needs one now. But she gets some other tests done and gets blood drawn and none of that really bothers her.

Not like when Dr. Lamar says, “Okay, now we need to talk about your level of sexual activity.”

Clara’s eyes dart from Dr. Lamar to Agent Coulson.

She shakes her head.

“Agent Coulson can leave,” Dr. Lamar says. “At any point you can tell him to wait outside, and he will.”

Clara considers this. “Can you wait outside instead?”

“Of course,” Dr. Lamar says. “But, in the interest of full disclosure, Agent Coulson will have to tell me what you tell him. He can do that when you’re not here, but as your doctor there are some things I need to know.”

“Okay,” Clara says. “I want Agent Coulson to leave then.”

This way she only has to tell one person.

Agent Coulson nods at both of them and says, “I’m going to refill my coffee. I’ll be outside the door in five minutes if you need anything.”

Clara waits until he’s gone to turn to Dr. Lamar. “I broke Little Tom’s fingers when he wouldn’t quit touching me, and I threatened to stick Gary with my knife when he looked at me funny.”

Dr. Lamar doesn’t look fazed. “Is that a no on sexual activity then?”

Clara nods. “Nobody touches me if I don’t want.”

“And you don’t want it?” Dr. Lamar asks. “Which is completely fine and normal. But if you do then we’ll need to talk about birth control and being safe.”

“I know all that stuff,” Clara says. Chiffon and Lace were  _ very _ clear that they didn’t want her having no babies. Clara doesn’t want babies either.

“Okay,” Dr. Lamar says. “Now, I need to do a more hands on exam. I’m going to have to touch you, but it’s for medical reasons only.”

Clara’s shoulders draw up.

“Would you like Agent Coulson to come back in?”

Clara doesn’t want this to happen at all, but it’s not a choice. And Dr. Lamar’s a doctor. They’re not supposed to hurt people. Even the doctors in the hospitals tried to help Clara, she just knew they couldn’t so she didn’t tell them anything, no matter how many lollipops they gave her.

But Agent Coulson can protect her if something happens.

She has a knife.

Enough?

Clara bites her lip, works it between her teeth while she thinks. “Can he come in but turn his back?” That way, if Clara needs him, she can just scream.

“Of course,” Dr. Lamar says. “I’ll go get him. Have you ever had a check-up before?”

Clara shakes her head.

“I’m going to check your eyesight and your hearing and your reflexes,” Dr. Lamar explains as she opens the door. “And then some other things. I’ll explain everything before I do it, okay?”

Clara nods.

“Welcome back, Agent Coulson,” Dr. Lamar says. “Clara’s asked that you be in the room but turn your back while I conduct the physical.”

“Of course,” Agent Coulson says, like this is a normal request. He sits down at the little desk with his coffee and a folder and immediately starts pulling out papers.

Clara relaxes a little.

Dr. Lamar comes over with a weird looking bracelet. “I’m going to check your blood pressure,” Dr. Lamar says. “You just have to sit there. I’m going to do all the work.”

~*~

Clara’s feeling shaky and a little nauseous by the time they’re finally done in medical.

“We’ve missed breakfast,” Agent Coulson tells her, apologetic, “but it’s almost lunchtime. Food and then we can spend the afternoon in the shooting range?”

It sounds like a bribe, or maybe an apology for having to spend so long getting poked and prodded by a doctor, but Clara’s not above using that to her advantage.

“Okay,” she says.

They have a quiet lunch, Clara hunched over her tray while she does her best to bury bad memories beneath pizza and pudding.

“Do you want to use your bow or one of ours?” Agent Coulson asks when they’re finishing up.

“You guys have bows?” Clara asks. Maybe she’s not the only archer here. She’s not sure how she feels about that. Not being the only archer means someone to train with. It also means someone to train  _ against _ . She learned how to be better than Barney, she can learn how to be better than anyone here.

“A couple,” Agent Coulson says. “They’re not the agency’s weapon of choice, but sometimes they’re useful. Since they’re your speciality, R&D will start to tinker. Let me know any feedback you have, and I’ll pass it onto them.”

“I learned to shoot on rigged circus games,” Clara tells him. “Anything you have has to be better than that.”

“You might end up with something subpar if a mission goes off track, but when you’re a part of our agency then the goal is to give you the best we have.”

“Do I have to practice with guns?”

“Yes, but we’ll let you use your bow as much as we can.”

“Okay. I’ll give one of your bows a shot.” She pauses, flashes a smile. “Couple shots maybe.”

Agent Coulson shakes his head, but she can see the smile lurking at the corner of his lips as they bring their trays to the conveyor belt that’ll bring them to the kitchen to be washed. “Normal arrows for the first week. After that we can talk about mixing things up.”

Honestly, Clara doesn’t care about trick arrows right now. She just wants to feel a bow in her hands again.

“You have to scan to get in and out,” Agent Coulson says when they reach the shooting range doors. “It’s how we keep track of how long you train each day. And - before you ask - you can’t cheat the system. I’ve got your card set up so I’ll be alerted if you’re in here longer than three hours.”

“At a time?”

“A day,” Agent Coulson answers.

He scans his card then motions for her to scans hers.

“I only get three hours?” she asks. “Don’t you want me to be the best?”

“I want you to be well-rounded. And I don’t want you to burn out.”

Before she can argue that she’ll never get tired of shooting, he brings her over to a desk. There’s a man sitting at it and behind him is a giant cage full of different weapons and ammunitions. Her mouth falls open before she can help it.

“Agent Wesson, this is Trainee Barton.”

She tears her eyes away from the locked up guns to look at the man behind the desk. He has buzzed brown hair and a crooked nose, and he’s wearing the same t-shirt as Clara.

“ _ He’s _ wearing real clothes,” Clara says.

Agent Coulson ignores her.

“No crack about my name?” Agent Wesson asks. “I like you.”

Clara knows all about unfortunate names. She’s got no place judging other people.

“Trainee Barton specializes in bows,” Agent Coulson says, “and as of this time she’s only allowed to practice while supervised.”

“I’m not a baby. I don’t need someone watching me.”

“You’re a trainee.”

“You’re really going to sit and watch me shoot for three hours?”

Agent Coulson holds up his folder. “I brought work with me.”

“You sayin’ I’m boring?”

Agent Wesson laughs. “Here’s a bow for you, trainee. It’s your first day so we’ll start there. We can always increase the draw as your training really gets underway.”

Clara takes the bow with a quiet, “Thanks.” It’s better quality than anything she’s had before. She kind of wants to spend a few minutes just stroking it, but then Agent Wesson gives her a quiver full of arrows and that’s much better.

“Arm guard?” Agent Wesson asks.

“I’m good,” Clara says.

“She’ll take one,” Agent Coulson says.

“It’ll throw everything off!”

“Consider it a challenge.”

She snatches the arm guard out of Agent Wesson’s hands and straps it on. “I’ve shot while balancing on a horse. I’ve shot while leaping from the acrobat stand.”

“And I’m sure you’ll shoot in equally dangerous situations while with SHIELD,” Agent Coulson says. “Which means I’m going to minimize what danger I can. Wear the arm guard or you don’t shoot.”

“You’ve got a lot of rules here,” Clara grumbles.

“And I trust you’ll learn them all.”

“Happy shooting, Trainee Barton,” Agent Wesson tells her.

She gives him a smile, because  _ he’s _ not a fun ruiner, and Agent Coulson shows her to a shooting stall.

“If you’re using guns or explosive arrows you need to wear protective headphones,” Agent Coulson tells her. “Agent Wesson will provide you with a pair. You don’t need them for what you’re doing today.”

Now that Clara has a bow in her hands and a target in sight, she doesn't want to argue. She just wants to shoot. She turns the bow over in her hands, checks the strength of the string, and nocks her first arrow. She lets it fly and it thuds into the circle right outside the bullseye. She grabs the next arrow.

Her first two rounds are a warm-up as her body remembers how to shoot again. She’d forgotten how utterly still the world becomes when she pulls the arrow back, how calm she is the moment before she lets go. It’s the closest to happiness she’s ever gotten.

After she reels in the second target to retrieve her arrows, she looks over at Agent Coulson. “How do I move the target back?”

He looks at the tattered inner ring. “Sure you’re ready for that?”

She scowls and jams the button to put the target back where it was. She sinks eight arrows in the bullseye.

“It’s called warming up,” she says. “Now how do I move it back?”

“Another 10 feet?” Agent Coulson asks.

“20.”

She shoots for an hour, testing herself at different distances, learning this new bow, and she doesn’t even care that Agent Coulson stops paying attention. It just means she has to get better, give him something to watch.

“You good?” Agent Coulson asks, when he catches her rubbing her arm.

The arm guard protects her from the bow string, but there’s nothing to protect her from unused muscles.

“You said I get three hours.”

“I said you don’t get more than three hours. It’s your first day. You don’t want to overdo it.”

“I’m fine,” Clara says. “And you’ve still got a bunch of papers.”

Agent Coulson looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Clara rewards him by shooting a smiley face into the target. When she glances over at him, Agent Coulson smiles at her.

It feels almost as good as getting to hold a bow again.

~*~

The next morning, Clara’s entire body aches. It’s a struggle to get dressed, her arms not wanting to bend the right way to get her sports bra on. She resolves to never let her body get this out of shape again.

When she meets Agent Coulson in the cafeteria he smiles like he can see she’s sore.

“Can we shoot again today?” she asks, ignoring his smile.

“Maybe,” he says. “There are some other things I want you to try today.”

“What other things? Guns?” She doesn’t really want to use a gun. Trick always said they were a cheater’s bow, but she doesn’t want to use them because it’s too easy to hurt someone by accident. You have to be careful with a bow, deliberate. The only people she wants to shoot are the ones she intends to.

“No. Not guns. Get your breakfast and we’ll talk about it.”

She loads up a tray with eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, and potato patties. Agent Coulson has an orange juice, a water, and something that looks like an orange but isn’t, waiting for her.

“It’s a grapefruit,” Agent Coulson explains. “I thought you might want to try it. They’re tricky to eat, but I can show you. I got one for myself, too.”

She eyes it, wary. “If I’m still hungry at the end. Why can’t we shoot today?”

“We’re about to start a new training class,” Agent Coulson says. “It won’t count as your official training, and you won’t be able to do everything with them, but it’ll be a way for you to meet other people and get more well-rounded training.”

Clara narrows her eyes. “You trying to get rid of me?”

Barney dragged her to the circus with him, but he was quick to dump her when he found older, better people to hang out with. She doesn’t let herself feel the same disappointment now that Agent Coulson’s dumping her. Really, she should’ve been expecting it.

“Whatever,” she says before Agent Coulson can say anything. “I’ll join the class.”

“I’m not getting rid of you,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara shoves the grapefruit to his side of the table and doesn’t talk to him for the rest of breakfast.

It isn’t until they’ve put their trays away that she asks, “Where’s the training class?”

“You don’t have to go,” Agent Coulson tells her. He’s watching her like he he realizes he did something wrong and doesn’t know how to fix it.

Clara squares her jaw. “I want to learn. That’s why I’m here, right?”

To learn as much as she can before they cut her out completely and she’s on her own again. The fact that Agent Coulson’s already tired of her isn’t a good sign. She needs to start learning new stuff  _ now _ . It’s clear she doesn’t have as much time as she thought. Though, maybe, if she can find a way to make herself invisible, stop being a burden, then he’ll forget about her, and she can stay longer.

“They meet in Practice Gym 1 at 8am every morning,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara glances up at the clock on the wall. They have fifteen minutes to get there. She.  _ She  _ has fifteen minutes to get there.

“Well, have fun with your boring paperwork,” she says.

“My boring paperwork and I are going with you,” Agent Coulson says. “I’m your handler. You’re my responsibility whether I’m directly training you or not. I’m not abandoning you.”

Not yet, she thinks.

~*~

When they get to the practice gym, the first thing Clara notices is that all the trainees are in SHIELD t-shirts like her, though they’re all in shorts or sweatpants instead of spandex.

The second thing she notices is that they’re all older than her. It doesn’t bother her. She’s spent her whole life competing against kids bigger and older than she is. People like that always underestimate her, and that’s what lets her beat them.

“Agent Richards, this is Trainee Barton,” Agent Coulson says. “She’ll be joining your group.”

Everyone but Agent Richards startles at Agent Coulson’s voice, then pulls themselves to rigid attention. Clara doesn’t get why everyone's so scared of him.

She takes the time to study Agent Richards. He’s older than all the other trainees and Agent Coulson. He has thick red hair, no premature thinning for him. His muscles strain at his t-shirt, and Clara thinks his arms are thicker than her thighs. People like him sacrifice speed for strength, she reminds herself. And Agent Coulson will be here the whole time. She won’t get hurt.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Richards says. “Agent Coulson ran all over creation looking for you.”

“I’m good at hiding.”

Richards barks out a laugh. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you? Coulson, the rules are finders keepers.”

“I’m aware,” Agent Coulson says. “I’m not giving her to you. Just taking advantage of your training program. I’ll be in the corner if you need me.”

Clara thinks the last bit is more for her benefit than anyone else’s, but she doesn’t say anything. She won’t need him. As soon as she asks for help, the others will sense weakness. She’s already smaller, younger, and stupider than them. She can’t afford any more strikes.

“All right,” Agent Richards says, clapping his hands together. “Time to get started. We’re going to give you your introduction to hand-to-hand combat today. Quit smirking, Harris, this isn’t going to be like whatever pitiful excuse for kung fu you took in junior high.”

“It was karate,” Harris mutters.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to warm-up whatever way you think is best, because Director Fury doesn’t want you to be mindless drones. That’s what the CIA’s for. As someone with a fuckload more experience than you, I’d recommend a mix of cardio and stretching, but that’s up to you.”

The woman next to Clara turns to her and says, “Warm-up with me?”

Clara’s ready to say no, if it’s a pity offer, but everyone else is clumping into groups of two or three. Clara shrugs. “I guess.”

“So much enthusiasm,” the woman laughs. “I’m Rachel Burns.”

“Clara Barton.”

Burns starts running, and it’s slower than Clara expected. Of course, she’s never run as a warm-up before. She’s run, because the trailer she shared with Chiffon and Lace got too suffocating sometimes and she needed to get out, get away from trailers and tents and just run until all she could see were trees and sky. She’s run because she’s hiding from Barney, and she’s run because she’s being chased or having people throw knives or pots at her.

It’s weird not running at full speed. She wonders if that’s going to be part of her training. She’s got pretty good endurance, but the people she’ll be running from on SHIELD missions probably won’t give up as quick as someone she stole a box of rotini from.

They run in a couple circles around the gym in one direction and then the same number in the opposite direction and then go and sit on the big blue mat.

“Guess we’re working throws today,” Burns says, patting the mat. “This’ll cushion the fall a bit. Still end up with plenty of bruises.”

Clara looks around to see people stretching and this, at least, she’s good at. She bends and leans forward until she can grab the heels of her shoes.

“You’ve done this before?” Clara asks.

“I was scooped up from the FBI,” Burns says. “I got stuck with a sexist boss and there’s wasn’t much advancement opportunity. I’ve got to go through training all over again, and I have to start at the bottom of the ladder again, but at least I’ll be able to climb it.”

Clara stretches her legs out to the sides and presses her face into the mat. “That’s a yes, then?”

“I’m decent at hand-to-hand, and I’m pretty good with a gun,” Burns says. “I’m better with the intellectual side of things, but you’re not allowed to be an FBI agent unless you can meet certain physical requirements.”

Clara moves up into a split.

“Just looking at you hurts right now,” Burns says. “How does your body move like that?”

“Practice,” Clara answers. Rooming with the acrobats helped. They would routinely play ‘the floor is lava’ to test their ability to stretch and contort their bodies. Besides, Clara needed to be limber for a bunch of her tricks.

“No shit,” Burns says. “You a gymnast or something?”

“Naw. Hobby.”

“I see how it is,” Burn says. “I tell you all about myself, and you decide to be mysterious.”

Clara shrugs. Information is dangerous. It can be used against you. Agent Coulson knows everything about her, because he has a folder, but no one else here has that folder. They only know what she tells them.

“I can make myself into a pretzel. Wanna see?”

Clara shows off a little and then Agent Richards calls them back together.

“We’re doing basics today,” Richards tells them. “How to make a fist, how to throw a punch, and how to fall. I don’t care if you’ve learned this before. I don’t care what your sash color is, Harris, everyone is doing this, and they’re doing it at my pace.”

“It’s a belt,” Harris mutters.

Clara knows how to make a fist because Barney told her it might make her marginally less useless in a fight, but she’s never really thrown a punch before.

“You don’t want to roundhouse like that,” Burns says after Clara’s first swing. “It’s a lot of wasted energy. Short and direct. Like this.”

She demonstrates, hips and torso twisting, but she doesn’t swing her arm around like Clara did. Clara frowns and tries again.

“Better,” Burns says. “Didn’t fight much?”

“Not with my hands,” Clara says. She didn’t really even fight, just threatened people. When she lived at home she was too small to fight, and once she got to the circus she didn’t need to.

“You’re going to want to practice this all the time then,” Burns says. “Drill the motions into your muscles. You never know when being able to throw a punch without having to think will come in handy.”

Like the way her bow is a part of her, how she doesn’t even need to think sometimes in order to hit a target. Just draw and fire. Clara vows to practice every night before she goes to bed.

“Did you fight a lot in the FBI?”

“I sat at a desk a lot in the FBI,” Burns laughs. She adjusts Clara’s feet. “But my partner and I sparred every day. It kept us in shape and it kept us in practice.”

“Did you wear a suit all the time like Agent Coulson?”

“My boss thought women should wear skirt suits.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Yep. Nice form on that one. Ten more like that and we’ll work your left side. You’ve got good core strength. That’ll come in handy. The dresscode was another good reason to switch to SHIELD. No one here expects me to run in heels.”

“SHIELD gave me two pairs of sneakers,” Clara says. “They’re comfy. And good for running.”

They continue to work basic punches, Richards stopping them periodically to show them a new punch, and walking between groups to personally correct people. Clara’s back tightens when he walks by her and Burns, but he passes them by without a word.

“Does that mean we’re doing it right or we’re not important?” Clara asks once he’s out of earshot.

Burns shrugs. “I don’t try to figure the bosses out. I just do what I’m told like a good little minion.”

After an hour of punches, Richards brings them all together for a demonstration on falling.

“I can promise you you’re going to fall more than you’re going to punch people in your career as an agent,” he says, “Which means you’re going to learn to fall right. The goal of falling is to minimize damage and to get yourself back into a defensive position as fluidly as possible. We’re going to start with the basic slap and roll. It looks easy but getting the timing of the slap is the difference between a bruised tailbone and rolling gracefully to your feet.”

Richards scans the crowd, his eyes falling on Clara. “Trainee Barton, get up here.”

Clara dutifully joins him in front of the class, and she has to fight not to fidget. Show no fear, she reminds herself.

“I’m going to push you, and you’re going to fall,” Richards tells her. “It’s important that you let your partner push you. And that you push hard enough to knock someone over. I picked Barton, because a light breeze could knock her over, and I’m feeling lazy.”

Clara scowls and then braces herself for the shove. It’s against all of her instincts to stand there and let herself be hit, but Richards doesn’t try to hurt her, he just grabs her shoulders and  _ pushes _ . She goes down easy, and her instincts kick in here, and she slaps the ground and springs to her feet in a motion perfected in the early years of her life.

“Huh,” Richards says. “I didn’t expect you to be good at that. Harris, get your ass up here. You’re not going to disappoint me by unexpectedly not sucking.”

Clara slips back into the group, and when Richards sends Harris to the ground, the man slaps the ground but doesn’t quite execute his roll, and he gets clumsily to his feet. Richards breaks down everywhere Harris could be better and  _ how _ he could do it and then sends them back into their pairs.

“You fall a lot better than you punch,” Burns says.

She’s had a lot more practice.

“Sure you’re not secretly a gymnast?” Burns asks. “I won’t tell if Coulson recruited you straight out of college or whatever.”

Clara laughs. She was too dumb for the fifth grade, she would never have gotten into college.

“Did Agent Coulson recruit you?” Clara asks instead of answering.

“Not that special,” Burn says. “Now, I know when to slap, but how the hell did you roll like that?”

Clara finds herself glad to help, to return the favor Burns did when she taught Clara how to punch.

They spend an hour on rolls, and Clara’s not sure what they’re going to do until lunch.

Richards claps his hands together twice to get their attention and then grins. “Now we start back from the beginning.”

There are a bunch of groans, but Clara’s happy to practice punching again. Unlike everyone else here, she doesn’t have a background in this kind of fighting. She wonders when they’ll get to go to the shooting range.

“Alright,” Richards says. “We’re done for the morning. Lunch and meet in Classroom A at 2. Make sure you shower before lunch, you all smell like shit.”

“Just sweat, sir!” one of the trainees says and there are a few scattered laughs.

“You going to eat with us?” Burns asks nudging Clara’s shoulder.

“I eat with Agent Coulson,” Clara says.

“We can eat with the other trainees,” Agent Coulson says, appearing at Clara’s side.

She eyes him, suspicious. “Really? We never eat with other people.”

“It’s up to you,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara looks from him to Burns then back to him. She shrugs. “Okay. What’re you gonna do while we shower?”

“Talk to Agent Richards. I’ll probably make it to the cafeteria before you.”

“That means you’re in charge of saving seats, sir,” Burns says.

“I’ll get one table,” Agent Coulson says. “First come first serve.”

“Except for me,” Clara says with a grin.

“Except for you,” Agent Coulson agrees.

Clara’s a little surprised that all the trainees take the elevators to the same floor, but then she remembers that she’s on a floor full of trainees. It does mean she’s going to be in the showers at the same time as other people, so she takes the quickest one she can and hopes no one bothers her.

They don’t.

As soon as she’s out of the shower, a different trainee (a slower one) takes it. Clara puts her shower stuff back in her room and goes down to the cafeteria. There are people scattered throughout the room, but it’s easy to pick out a man in a suit among them all.

Clara gets her lunch and sits down next to Agent Coulson, at the spot with the milk and the water.

“Where are you friends?” Agent Coulson asks looking up from his folder.

“The other trainees are still showering. They’re slow.”

“Showering isn’t a race,” Agent Coulson says.

“I don’t want to talk about showering with you,” Clara says, and starts eating.

Agent Coulson must agree, because he lets the subject drop, and Clara’s down to just her burger, her French fries, and a salad by the time the other trainees trickle in.

Burns sits with them as well as three other women.

“The M-squad,” Burns says. “Mariah, Madison, and Mason.”

They all have blond braids and Clara doesn’t know how she’s supposed to tell them apart.

“Okay,” she says and takes a giant bite out of her burger. All this working out is making her hungrier than usual.

“Are you joining us for our afternoon sessions, too?” Burns asks.

Clara looks over at Agent Coulson.

“We’re having our own classroom sessions,” Agent Coulson says. “She’s not an agent in training yet, and I want to make sure something will be new when she enrolls in the course for real.”

“Classroom?” Clara asks. “I thought we were going to the shooting range.”

“Classroom first,” Agent Coulson says.

“You’re definitely using it as a bribe,” Clara says. “Not that I mind. But you’re not being sneaky.”

“I’m not trying to be sneaky. I’m trying to make sure that you get to do things you like and things that challenge you.”

“We could do both,” Clara says. “I could challenge myself while shooting. I was thinking that once I get some of my strength back up, I can work on shooting while suspended from a rope.”

“Practical application?”

Clara has to think about it. “We’re on a mission at a school and we end up in the gymnasium and by making use of the ropes course I can get up high and get a better shot.”

“Why would you be hanging upside down?”

Clara shrugs. “Fun?”

Burns laughs. “So you’re a sharpshooter, then?” She looks over at Agent Coulson. “I guessed gymnast earlier, but she said no.”

“You’re a little young for a sharpshooter, aren’t you?” one of the Ms asks.

Clara takes another bite of her burger so she can’t talk.

“Mysterious,” Burns says. “I should add you to the M-squad.”

“If there’s four of us we could be the M-square.”

“My wrists hurt,” the one Clara thinks is Madison says. She rotates her wrists and winces. “I’m not very good at falling.”

“All you’ve got to remember is that if you get knocked down, you get back up again,” Burns says.

Madison groans. “Now I’m going to have that song stuck in my head for the rest of the day. Thank you for that.”

Burns grins and Clara gets to retreat to the background and watch them interact while she eats. It’s kind of nice eating with other people. She doesn’t think Agent Coulson likes it very much, though. She wonders if he would even eat in the cafeteria if it weren’t for her.

~*~

“You don’t like the cafeteria,” Clara says on their way out of the cafeteria.

“The food is good,” Agent Coulson says.

“But you don’t like the people.”

Agent Coulson doesn’t answer until they’re in the elevator. “I don’t interact much with the other agents, no.”

“You don’t have to eat lunch with me,” Clara says. “I’m not a baby. And it’s not like I’m going to run away or anything.”

She needs to minimize the things she does that he doesn’t like so he’ll forget he wants to get rid of her. Not eating with him is an easy one, especially since she has other people to eat with now.

“I’m not eating with you because I’m afraid you’ll run away.”

“We’ll still eat breakfast together,” Clara says, “because it’s less crowded then so you can drink your coffee and ignore everyone. But I know how to get to the gym, and I can just meet you here after lunch.” She frowns when she realizes the elevator’s gone past the 7th floor. “Where’re we going?”

“My office,” Agent Coulson says. “I think it’ll work better than a classroom for what we’re doing.”

“What’re we doing?” Clara asks.

The elevator pings and the doors open.

“Every trainee does physical training in the mornings and book learning in the afternoons,” Agent Coulson tells her, leading her to his office. “What you’re going to be learning is different than what the others are learning.”

“Because I don’t need to know it?”

“Because you’re not ready yet.” Agent Coulson ushers her into his office and closes the door behind him.

His office isn’t as big as Director Fury’s, but it’s still big enough for a large desk, two filing cabinets, a big couch, and a smaller desk. The little desk reminds Clara of the ones from when she went to school. There’s even the pocket so you can store your books and stuff.

“I’m not very good at school,” Clara says. “But you probably knew that since you were like stalking me or whatever.”

“You were unavailable to learn,” Agent Coulson says.

“That’s a fancy way of saying stupid.”

Agent Coulson’s expression darkens. “No, it means you weren’t in a good place to be focusing on school. It’s hard to care about numbers or words when you’re worrying about the next time you’re going to eat.”

Clara rolls her eyes. “Lunch was the next time I was gonna eat. That was the whole point of going to school.”

“Sit down,” Agent Coulson tells her, rubbing his forehead like he’s got a headache. “I spoke with Director Fury, and we decided that you’ll work towards your GED in exchange for your stipend.”

A couple of people in the circus had GEDs. It basically means you didn’t go to high school but were smart enough to pass a bunch of tests anyways.

“You’re going to pay me to go to school?” she asks.

“I’m going to pay you to learn the things I teach you,” Agent Coulson says.

“What if I’m too stupid to learn?”

“You’re not,” Agent Coulson says. “And you’re going to stop talking about yourself like that.”

Clara crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m just telling the truth. I ran away from a place where I had a bed and food to eat to a place where my only friend froze to death during the winter. How smart does that sound to you?”

“It sounds desperate. But it also sounds hard. You made a tough choice, but once you were in the city, you found a way to survive. You found food, you found shelter, and you found a way to keep yourself warm during the winter. That sounds smart to me.”

Clara frowns.

“And I’m sorry about your friend,” Agent Coulson says, gentler now.

Clara shrugs. “Shit happens. What’re you trying to teach me first?”

Agent Coulson puts a packet in front of her. “I want you to answer all the questions you can.”

“Is this a test?”

“Not in the way you’re used to. This is a collection of math problems. Some of them you’ll know how to do, and some of them you won’t. It will help me see what you know and what you don’t and then I can figure out where we start your teaching.”

Clara looks down at the pages of numbers. There’s addition and multiplication and some weird looking squiggles with numbers after them. “Am I going to have to take a test like this for everything?”

“Yes,” Agent Coulson says. “For every placement test you take, you get half an hour in the shooting range.”

“How many tests are there?” Clara asks. “If I take seven then do I get more than three hours in the range?”

“Let’s start with math,” Agent Coulson says, “Then we can move on from there.”


	6. Chapter 6

Clara’s first week at SHIELD goes well. She sticks by Burns in training and at lunch, and she and Agent Coulson have set up a math curriculum, and it’s not terrible. She likes numbers. They make sense in a way that letters don’t.

Which, of course, means it’s time to start words.

There’s a packet waiting on her desk when she gets to Agent Coulson’s office that afternoon.

“What happened to math?” she asks.

“We’re going to start doing two lessons a day,” Agent Coulson tells her. “I want to test your reading.”

“I’m not any good at it,” Clara says.

Number have places, and it’s easy to tell how big or small a number is by just looking at it. And there are rules about adding and subtracting and multiplying and the order you do all those things, and the rules are always followed.

Reading isn’t like that. Words are spelled the same and said differently or they’re said the same but spelled differently and sometimes they stretch on and on and then they don’t sound right in her mouth. And that’s nothing on  _ sentences _ . Sometimes those go on so long she forgets what happened at the beginning.

“This is just like the math test,” Agent Coulson tells her. “I don’t care how many things you get wrong. Right answers and wrong answers both help to tell me where you’re at. I just want to figure out what level you’re at so we can begin to increase it. Can you read the first sentence for me?”

One time in class, Clara’s teacher told her it was her turn to read out loud. She didn’t want to, but the teacher said she didn’t have a choice. Clara stumbled over words and the other kids laughed. She got stuck on the word  _ khaki _ , pronounced it  _ kah-haki _ and apparently that was wrong and everyone started laughing and then chanting  _ kah-haki, kah-haki _ over and over.

She got so mad she ripped her book up and then she had to go home and ask Dad for money to pay for it.

That was one of the few times she had to go to the hospital.

At least by the time she got back to school no one remembered the khaki incident except for her.

“I don’t want to read it out loud,” she says.

“It’s important that you do.”

“I’m going to get the words wrong.”

“Then I’ll help you get them right.”

She shakes her head. “Can’t I just tell you I’m stupid and we can forget about it?”

“No. I’m going to help you learn how to read.”

“Not if I don’t read the words you won’t,” she says.

“You won’t get to the range tonight if you don’t,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara turns the packet over so she’s staring at a blank page.

She holds her breath, waiting for him to yell or maybe hit her, but he just looks disappointed before going back to his computer. “Let me know whenever you’re ready to begin.”

Clara stares at the blank page, willing the tears to stay in her eyes, and doesn’t say anything.

For hours.

“Time for dinner,” Agent Coulson says getting up from his desk.

Clara’s head snaps up, curious, than wary. She watches him shut down his computer then rearrange the files on his desk. He smooths out his suit, checks his tie and then looks over at her.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“I can go?” she asks.

“Of course you can come to dinner,” Agent Coulson says. “We’re done with our classroom time for the day.”

If he’s not going to punish her for not doing her work then she’s not going to push him until he does. She springs up from her seat.

“Great. I’m hungry.”

~*~

The next day, Agent Coulson sits her down with a math worksheet, and she happily makes her way through it, stopping to ask him questions when she has them, but mostly working through the problems herself.

When she’s done with that, instead of introducing a new lesson, Agent Coulson puts the reading packet on her desk.

She watches him as she turns it over again.

His lips quirk downward but then he turns his attention back to his computer.

Clara closes her eyes and imagines a shooting obstacle course.

~*~

“I’m finally going to give you all what you’ve been waiting for,” Agent Richards says at their morning session. They’re still in the practice gym, still working on hand-to-hand. “I’m going to let you at each other.”

So far all they’ve done is practice different kinds of punches and kicks as well as how to recover when you get hit. They haven’t hit anything more human than a padded hand, mostly punching the air or using the bags when Richards wanted them to start feeling an impact.

“That’s right,” Richards says, grinning as excited whispers work their way through the crowd. “We’re going to spar today. Everyone warm-up. Cardio, stretch, then partner up to go through your sequences.”

“What’s sparring?” Clara asks as she and Burns start their run.

“It means we fight each other. For fun.”

“How do you fight someone for fun?” Clara asks. She’s never had a fun fight.

“It’s like practice. You’re not trying to hurt each other.”

“How’s that practice? When we fight for real you are trying to hurt someone.”

“It’s -” Burns shrugs. “I don’t really know how to explain it. We’ll make sure we watch a few rounds before we try.”

Clara doesn’t really want to hurt anyone here, and she definitely doesn’t want to get hurt. She’s seen people wrestle before at the circus, but it was usually because someone said something they shouldn’t have or took something they shouldn’t have and it was a way to force an apology. As long as you said sorry you didn’t get hurt too bad.

Once they go through their running and their stretches, they practice the moves they’ve learned. They go through their punches, then their kicks, then some of the holds they’ve started learning. Clara’s better at getting out of the holds than applying them.

“Maybe I just don’t have the strength yet,” Clara says when Burns easily breaks her chokehold. She doesn’t say she knows what it feels like to struggle against someone’s arm, to know that whether you get to breathe or not depends on how someone bigger and meaner than you feels about you in that moment.

“We’ll work on it,” Burns promises.

It’s not long before Richard gathers them all around an extra mat. It’s thicker than their usual practice mat and squishier. Clara pokes it with her shoe and then quickly pulls her foot back before anyone can notice.

“We’re going to spar one-on-one,” Richards says. “Watching other people fight is just as instructive as learning things yourself. Warlick and LaFaille, you’re up first.”

Madison and Mariah go up in front of the class, and they both immediately crouch down, eyeing the other for weakness. They start to circle each other, neither of them willing to make the first move.

“Sometime today, trainees,” Richards says.

Madison flushes and lunges, but it’s off-balance, so when she swings it doesn’t have much force behind it. Mariah catches her fist and twists Madison’s arm up behind her back. She tries to use her leverage to force Madison down to the mat, but Madison drops to her knees and uses the momentum to twist free.

They spring apart and circle each other again.

This time, Mariah makes the first move, a series of punches and kicks that Madison has to block. They’re quick enough that they drive Madison back and give her no time to counter. And then, after three high kicks in a row, Mariah sweeps her leg out and brings Madison to the ground.

“Good,” Richards says, and Mariah gives Madison a hand up. “Who wants to tell me what they saw?”

Two more pairs go before Richards looks straight at Clara and says, “Barton and Burns, you’re up.”

Clara doesn’t want to do this. She forces her feet to move, to bring her up to where the pairs are supposed to fight, but she doesn’t want to. Burns has been a good partner, has helped her. Clara doesn’t want to hurt her. And she doesn’t want to watch Burns try to hurt her.

If she says no will she get kicked out of class?

Burns moves to Clara’s right, because she knows Clara’s left is weaker than her right, and Clara realizes something else about fighting your partner. They know things about you. They know your strengths and your weaknesses.

Burns rushes her, and Clara remembers their lesson from the first day and lets Burns knock her to the ground. She doesn’t slap the ground and roll, though. She just stays there. Don’t fight back and you won’t get hit as bad. Make yourself small, make yourself forgettable.

“Hey,” Burns says, frowning a little. “You okay? I hit you too hard?”

Clara gets to her feet. “Fine.”

“Again?” Burns asks but she’s looking over at Richards.

He’s frowning. “Barton, what the hell was that?”

Clara shrugs.

“I asked you a question, trainee.”

“She’s my partner,” Clara says. “Partners stick together. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Well, now I feel like a jerk,” Burns says.

RIchards sighs. “Harris, get up here.”

Harris, the one who has experience with hand-to-hand, is quick to scramble up. “Yes, sir.”

“Barton, he’s not your partner. You have a problem hitting him?”

Clara shakes her head.

“There we go,” Richards says. “Burns, step back. I’ll pair you with Harris’s partner next. Barton and Harris, whenever you’re ready.”

This was a bad idea, Clara thinks, eyeing the man in front of her. She should’ve just fought Burns and pulled her punches. At least Burns wouldn’t try to hurt Clara. She’s not so sure about Harris. He’s so obviously desperate to prove himself, and Clara’s a perfect opportunity for him to do that.

“You going to run away from me, too?” Harris asks after he jabs and she jumps out of the way.

“I dunno, you gonna talk the whole time?”

He scowls and punches, his arm swinging out the way Clara’s used to before Burns fixed it. Clara easily ducks under it. She dodges his next three attacks, and skips back so there’s a couple feet between them again.

“Are you serious with this?” he demands.

She shrugs. “I’m working on my dodges. You’re trying to hit me and missing. Which one of us is losing, then?”

He growls and lunges. She’s not quite quick enough, and he gets a hold of her ankle when she tries to slip away. She kicks at his hand with her other foot, and she must make contact because he’s quick to let go, and she rolls a few times before springing to her feet.

They continue in this vein for a few minutes, Clara avoiding being hit or wriggling out of Harris’s holds, but she doesn’t make any progress on her end either.

Finally, Richards calls it.

“Well, there were definitely things to be learned there,” he says. “Barton, your evasive skills are high, but your offensive skills are nonexistent. Harris, if you let a kid rattle you then how the hell do you expect to fight the top members of an enemy’s agency? You’ve got skills in there, don’t let a little banter throw you off your game. Burns and Sorel, you’re up.”

Harris glares at Clara as they go back into the crowd and Clara makes a mental note to keep an eye on him. She thinks she’s just made her first enemy at SHIELD.

~*~

She eats lunch by herself, tucked into a corner no one would look for her in, and afterward goes up to Agent Coulson’s office.

She expects him to scold her for her sparring session or tell her he expects better, but he just gives her a math packet.

“Square roots today,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara’s almost happy to be left in peace with her math problems. It’s good to forget what happened this morning, to lose herself in something else. She’s just finished the packet up when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s not uncommon for people to want to talk to Agent Coulson, and Clara’s gotten used to the interruptions. Most days, she just ignores them. Today, since she’s finished what she’s doing, she goes to open the door.

It’s Agent Richards.

Clara backs up slowly.

“Good, you’re here,” Richards says, which she doesn't think is a good start to a conversation. He shuts the door behind him. “This morning.”

“Shouldn’t we talk about this between us first?” Agent Coulson asks.

Richards raises his eyebrows. He looks at Clara. “Want to stand in the hallway while I talk to Coulson here, and we decide what to share with you?”

Clara shakes her head.

“There you go,” Richards says.

Agent Coulson doesn’t look pleased.

“I meant what I said after your sparring session this morning,” Richards tells her. “You’re slippery as hell, but everyone gets caught eventually. You need to learn how to land a punch.”

Clara nods.

“You’ve already said this,” Agent Coulson says. “Why’d you come here to say it again?”

“We rarely get trainees who have no fighting experience,” Richards says.

“I’ve got fighting experience,” Clara says.

Both men turn to her, both disbelieving.

“I mean, not the fighting  _ back _ part,” Clara says.

Something in Richards’s posture softens. “She needs to learn how to spar.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Agent Coulson says. “Anything else?”

“Naw. She’s a good kid.” Richards grins at both of them before seeing himself out.

“Am I in trouble?” Clara asks as soon as he’s gone.

“No. Most of the trainees we got from other agencies so they have a lot of the basic training. You don’t. That just means we need to catch you up.” Agent Coulson puts his computer to sleep.

“Right now?” Clara asks.

“Are you planning on reading to me today?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

“Then let’s skip the silent treatment today and do something productive.”

Clara’s all for that. She follows him back down to the practice gym, but they go to Practice Gym 3, because there isn’t anyone there.

She doesn’t know what she expects, but Agent Coulson taking off his suit jacket isn’t it.

“What’re you doing?” she asks as he loosens his tie and takes that off too.

“I don’t want you choking me with my own tie,” he says. “That would be embarrassing.”

“I’m supposed to fight  _ you _ ? That’s worse than Burns.”

“Think about how mad you are that I’m trying to make you read.”

Clara shakes her head and steps back so quickly she stumbles and ends up on her ass. “I don’t want to hurt you for that. I just want you to stop.”

Hurting people because you’re mad is what her dad did. It’s what Barney started to do when he realized he was too low in the circus to take his anger out on anyone but her. She doesn’t want to be like them.

“Okay,” Agent Coulson says, like he realizes he said something wrong. “Then let’s talk about what we can do to make this easier for you.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she says. “Not even Harris.”

“That’s a good place to start,” Agent Coulson says. He sits down next to her on the mat. “Sparring isn’t about hurting people. It would be bad if our trainees put each other in the hospital during training. You wouldn’t learn very much that way. Sparring means that you can work on your punches for a time you’ll need them and that your partner can work on blocking them. If you never attack then how will your partner learn how to defend?”

Clara shrugs.

“Exactly,” Agent Coulson tells her. “You’d be helping Burns if you sparred with her. You’d help prepare her for if someone ever attacked her. The benefit being that you  _ aren’t _ trying to hurt her, so if she isn’t quick enough or reads you wrong she ends up with a bruise instead of broken bone.”

“Huh,” Clara says.

“Some people think of sparring like a dance,” Agent Coulson says. “I think of it as a read and react exercise. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction sort of thing. You want to try?”

“Can I stop any time?”

“Of course.”

They both stand up.

“Ready?” Agent Coulson asks.

At her nod, he steps forward.

She steps back.

“Good,” he says. “Now, I’m going to throw a punch.”

He does it in slow motion, shows her how to block the punch. They go through the motion again, faster this time. They do it a third time and this time, after she blocks his punch he comes after her with another one. She blocks this one too and turns it into a punch of her own. He blocks it easily, and she has a moment of relief that she didn’t feel his face break under her hand before he’s attacking again.

It’s slow, much slower than what Richards would want, but Clara begins to see how each action is met with a different one, how they blend easily into each other. They twist and move around each other, a series of pushes and deflections and when Agent Coulson finally steps back, neither of them has landed a hard hit.

“Better?” he asks.

Clara nods.

“We’ll keep working on it,” Agent Coulson promises. “Next time you spar in class, you should be ready to try it. I think you’re going to spend this next week learning more advanced combinations so we’ll have a solid week of practice.”

“Instead of reading?” Clara asks, hopeful.

It’s the wrong thing to say, because Agent Coulson looks disappointed again. “We haven’t gotten any reading done yet.”

“I’m not any good at it.”

“You didn’t know what you were doing here,” Agent Coulson points out, “and you let me help you. Why’s reading different?”

“This will protect me,” Clara says. “And it’ll help Burns. You said so. Reading’s not going to help nobody.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Agent Coulson says. “Why don’t we call it an early day.”

“Can we go to the shooting range before dinner? Please?”

Agent Coulson checks his watch. “You can shoot until 6. And then it’s dinner time.”

“Okay.” She gets to the gym doors before she realizes he’s still where she left him. “Hurry! We’re wasting time!”

He laughs but obligingly jogs to catch up to her, scooping up his tie and suit jacket along the way.

~*~

After the shooting range, Clara’s mood is vastly improved, which leads her to nudging Agent Coulson when they get to dinner and she sees Sitwell sitting by himself. “Isn’t he your friend?” she asks. “You should sit with him.”

“And leave you alone?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I’m fine on my own.” She decides not to mention that she spent lunch on her own.

“Why don’t we both sit with Agent Sitwell,” he says.

“Sure,” she says and goes to find food.

She gets to the table before Agent Coulson, and she sits down across from Sitwell with a smile. “Hi.”

He looks up from his spaghetti, surprised at the interruption, then doubly surprised when he sees her. “Hi?”

“Agent Coulson said you looked lonely.”

“Did he?” Sitwell asks.

Clara cuts up her ham and mixes it into her mashed potatoes and mixes her corn and carrot cubes into the mess. She dumps a little bowl of cheese on top and puts a big spoonful in her mouth. Not bad. Not as good as pizza though.

Agent Coulson joins them a moment later, and he gives Clara a glass of milk and a glass of Sprite.

“I heard I’m lonely,” Sitwell says.

Agent Coulson shrugs. “You were sitting alone.”

“Says the man who ate all his meals alone in his office until he got himself a trainee.”

“You can take food out of the cafeteria?” Clara asks, mind already spinning with possibilities. Her fridge has been empty since she got here, but if she can bring food out of here then she could fill it with pudding. She could bring pizza back and put it in the microwave for a late snack. She could -

“No,” Agent Coulson tells her. “Cafeteria food is eaten in the cafeteria.”

“What if I get hungry and it’s not mealtime?”

“Has that happened?” he asks.

He actually looks worried so she shakes her head, telling the truth.

“But what if it does happen?” she asks. “How did you get food in your office?”

“I went out and bought it,” he says.

Sitwell laughs. “Don’t lie, you sent a junior agent to do it.”

“I was busy,” Agent Coulson defends.

Clara doesn’t think she can leave SHIELD, and there definitely isn’t anyone here she can boss around. Her fridge is staying empty. It’s okay, though. She meant it earlier when she said she hasn’t been hungry since getting here. It’s kind of weird, actually.

“Having a trainee’s been good for you,” Sitwell says. “It’s gotten you out socializing and attending meals like a regular human being.”

“I thought I was a robot created by Stark and programmed by Director Fury.”

“Is that the newest rumor?” Sitwell asks. “Weak. I personally liked the one where you were taken from your parents as a kid like a Jedi and trained by Director Fury until you were the perfect minion.”

“Why waste all that effort on a mere minion?” Agent Coulson asks.

He’s smiling, and Clara lets herself smile before she shovels more potatoes into her mouth. Sitting with Sitwell had been a good idea.

She does a good job blending into the seat and letting the two men talk, but there’s someone who does notice her. At the end of dinner, Burns comes up to their table.

“Agent Sitwell,” she says, “Agent Coulson.”

“Trainee Burns,” they says.

She grins. “I was wondering if Barton’s done with her training for the day.”

“She’s free after dinner just like you are,” Agent Coulson says.

“Permission to steal her away to bake cookies then, sir?”

Clara’s eyes light up. “Cookies?”

Agent Coulson looks pointedly at her two empty pie dishes.

“I had  _ two _ vegetables,” she says.

“Corn doesn’t count as a vegetable.”

“Iowa disagrees with you,” Clara says. “So does my Ma.”

“Well,” Agent Coulson says, “Who am I to disagree with your mother? Once you put your tray away, your night is yours. Do what you want, but remember you have an early morning tomorrow.”

“I have an early morning every morning,” she says, but she’s grinning as she puts her tray away.

“Iowa?” Burns asks as they head out of the cafeteria. “Is that where you’re from?”

“Doesn’t the FBI know that kind of stuff?”

“They don’t have a file on everyone,” Burns says. “And even if they did, I certainly don’t have them all memorized. Is that your way of saying you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’m from Room 27,” Clara says.

“Gotcha. I’m from Wisconsin. My parents have albums dedicated to me wearing a cheese hat so they can embarrass me whenever I bring a boyfriend home.”

“Why’d you wear a cheese hat?”

“Green Bay Packers?” Burns asks. “No? Not ringing any bells?”

Clara shrugs.

“Football team,” Burns says. “Cheese hats. They’re a thing. Anyway, the M-squad’s joining us. I room with Mason. Madison and Mariah are roommates, but they like cookies.”

“They’re sparring partners,” Clara says. “Why didn’t you choose Mason?”

“Eh. Figured living and training with Mason was a lot and being sparring partners might be too much. Besides, I had you. Hopefully still have you. You didn’t ditch me for Harris, did you?”

She shakes her head. “I’m going to be better next time.”

“Of course you are,” Burns says. “That’s what training’s all about.”

She scans her card and her door unlocks.

“Just like that?” Clara asks. “You didn’t even ask if I was practicing.”

“Maybe you just need someone to believe in you,” Burns says. “Heaven knows I never would’ve made it to the FBI without my tennis coach.”

“You played tennis?”

“Ugh,” Madison says. “You’re talking about tennis  _ again _ ?”

“It’s a great sport,” Burns says with a smile. “You all just don’t appreciate it.”

“You have to wear a skirt,” Mason says.

“I had to wear a skirt in the FBI,” Burns points out.

Clara follows her into the kitchen part of the room, and she can’t help the way her mouth drops when Burns opens the fridge.

“You have food in there!”

There’s milk and eggs and Bisquick and ketchup and all sorts of things. There are even a couple styrofoam containers.

“Yeah,” Burns says. “Is your fridge empty?”

“Agent Coulson said I couldn’t fill it with food from the cafeteria.” Clara watches as Burns pulls out a package of cookie dough. “Where’d you get this stuff?”

“The store,” Burns says, still smiling. “You haven’t been off campus yet?”

Clara’s eyes go even wider. “They let you leave?”

“Oh yeah,” Burns says. “I guess your situation might be different. I’m sure you could ask Agent Coulson. What’s the worst he could say?”

He could think she was trying to run away. He could think she didn’t think SHIELD was good enough. It is. It’s plenty good. It’s the best place she’s ever been. She doesn’t need to go to the store even if it meant she could make cookies any time she wanted. She can eat all the cookies she wants when she goes to lunch or dinner.

“So you’ve all left?” Clara asks.

“All the trainees went to a bar the night before training started,” Mariah says. “And we’ll go out to eat sometimes.”

“Like at a restaraunt?”

Mariah nods. “Yeah. Not too often though, because we’re pretty wiped by the end of the day, and the cafeteria’s a lot more convenient.”

“Plus, why spend our stipend when there’s free food,” Madison says.

Clara nods because she gets that.

“But tonight, we’re making cookies,” Burns says, beginning to break up the cookie dough. “And if there are any cookies left by the end of the night then we’ve done something terribly wrong.”

Clara grins and holds out a hand when Mason gives her a piece of cookie dough and says, “It’s just as good raw as it is cooked.”

“Except you can’t eat as much before getting sick,” Madison says. She slaps at Mason’s hand when she reaches for another piece. “We’re cooking the rest of it.”

“Ugh,” Mason says, “You’re no fun,” but she’s smiling as she says it, and Clara smiles too.

~*~

There’s a big binder on Clara’s desk when she gets to Agent Coulson’s desk after lunch. There’s a paper in the protective sheath that says  _ Flight Manual: A Guide to SHIELD Aircraft _ .

She looks over at Agent Coulson, wondering if this is some sort of mistake, but he’s working on his computer and besides, Agent Coulson doesn’t make mistakes. She opens the binder and flips past the first page to the table of contents. There are words like  _ helicopter  _ and  _ jet _ and  _ quinjet _ and she doesn’t understand.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “You’re going to teach me to fly? I don’t even have my driver’s license.”

“Something we’ll address at a later time,” Agent Coulson says, “I wanted to know if learning to fly is something that interests you.”

Is he kidding? Clara’s never been in an airplane in her life, but she’s seen plenty in the sky. She’s seen even more birds than planes, and she’s always been envious of their ability to fly. Acrobatics is the closest she can get, but if she could pilot? If she could go anywhere anytime she wanted?

“I guess so,” she says, trying to hide her excitement.

“Once you can read and understand the manual, I’ll arrange for lessons for you,” Agent Coulson says.

Some of her excitement dwindles. “Another bribe?”

Agent Coulson turns away from his computer. “You were willing to try sparring once I explained to you why we were asking you to do it. It made me think I was approaching reading the wrong way. I’m giving you the flight manual so you know why reading is important. It’s still your choice whether you flip your packet over or not.”

Clara flips the manual to a random page. There are at least ten words in the first paragraph she doesn’t recognize.

“It’ll be hard,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But I think it’s worth it. Do you?”

She closes the binder and runs her hand down the spine. “Do I get to keep this?”

“It’s yours,” he says. “I’ll print you copies of any updates we get.”

Underneath the binder is her reading packet. She picks it up.

“When Nicos first moved to Kenis-Ken _ sing _ ton in August, he was miserable,” she begins, words slow and awkward as they come out of her mouth. “He had lived in New York City his entire life, and there was always something exciting happening there.” Clara rolls her eyes. “Clearly we lived in different parts of the city.”

“I’m guessing he had a different life than you,” Agent Coulson says.

“Yeah,” Clara agrees. “He knew every kid in his building and in his neighborhood. He and his friends were always playing street hockey or soccer or doing any of a million other things.” Clara stops reading. “Street hockey? Does this story end with him getting run over by a car?”

“You’re going to have to keep reading to find out,” Agent Coulson tells her.

Clara huffs. “Fine. Ken-sing-ton was a culture shock for Nicos. His father’s company had opened a new plant in Ken-sing-ton and…”

Clara gets through the whole thing and then there’s a list of questions she has to answer about the story.

“Do I have to do this part?” Clara asks.

“Yes.”

She scowls. “It was a stupid story. Who even says  _ he was glad to see that his fears weren’t going to materialize _ ?”

“You read the whole thing,” Agent Coulson points out.

“Still a stupid story,” she says but she’s smiling as she reads the first question about the story she just read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story in her reading packet is a real thing. Credit to Scholastic.
> 
> http://printables.scholastic.com/content/stores/printables/priv/36/9780439404136-003.pdf


	7. Chapter 7

Four weeks into being a trainee, Agent Coulson picks her up for breakfast, something he hasn’t done since week one, and he has Agent Sitwell in tow.

“I’m being sent on a mission,” Agent Coulson tells her. “Agent Sitwell is going to be your supervisor while I’m gone.”

“You don’t really supervise me anymore,” she says. She’s a part of the trainee classes, and he doesn’t sit in those anymore. They eat breakfast together, and she goes to his office for her classroom lessons, but that’s it.

“If you need anything, he’s the one to go to,” Agent Coulson says. “And he knows your shooting range limits so no trying to weasel more time.”

“Of course not,” she says, as if she wasn’t already running through four different ways to try and convince Sitwell she had free reign of the place.

“I shouldn’t be gone longer than a week,” Agent Coulson tells her.

“Will it be dangerous?” she asks.

“It’s classified,” he says. “I need to go now. Agent Sitwell will eat breakfast with you.”

He leaves without another word, but Clara doesn’t move from her spot right away. Agent Coulson is leaving her. It makes sense that he wouldn’t give up being an agent just because he got stuck with her, but doing his paperwork in his office is different than him going away.

“He’s going to come back, right?” she asks.

“Agent Coulson’s one of the best agents we’ve got,” Sitwell tells her. “This is just a brush-up mission. He’ll be fine.”

“If it’s easy then why is he going?” she asks, as they head down to the elevator.

“Sometimes higher level agents get paired with lower level agents on easier missions to give the lower level agents experience,” Sitwell explains. “That way if something does go wrong, there’s someone with enough experience to fix it.”

“Does that mean Agent Coulson and I might go on missions together?”

“I would be surprised if you didn’t,” Sitwell tells her. “You’re his recruit and his trainee. I don’t doubt that he’s going to make sure you’re his specialist too.”

“Specialist? I thought I was going to be an agent.”

“You can definitely enroll in the program,” Sitwell says, “but most agents have specialties. Yours is shooting.”

“So I’ll be like a sniper or something?” Clara’s not sure how she feels about that.

“It’s still a long way off,” Sitwell tells her. “Let’s focus on something simple for now. Breakfast. I could kill a man for coffee right now.”

Clara wrinkles her nose. “Coffee’s gross.”

She goes to get her breakfast and when she gets back to the table, there isn’t any juice waiting for her. No Agent Coulson, she reminds herself. She goes back out to get herself some grape juice. After a moment of thought, she gets herself chocolate milk too.

“Wow,” Sitwell says when he sits down with his toast, eggs, and coffee. “You and Coulson usually share?”

Clara pulls her tray closer to her. “No.”

Sitwell nods. “Right. Well, I’ve already talked more than I usually do before my third cup of coffee so I’m going to drink this.”

She shrugs and digs into her breakfast. She finishes before Sitwell does.

“You’re slow,” she says.

He looks a little awed that she was able to put that much food away that fast. “Breakfast isn’t my favorite meal.”

Clara doesn’t understand how any meal isn’t the best, but she just files that away in her folder of things she doesn’t understand about Sitwell. Like why he doesn’t have any hair.

“You’re not that old,” she says.

“I didn’t follow that jump,” he says.

“I thought only old people were bald.”

“Ah,” he says. “Genetics. Given the vast number of ways they can screw you over, I can’t be too upset about it.”

“Huh. I’m going to my morning session now. You don’t have to come. Agent Coulson doesn’t come anymore. Well, except for the second time we sparred.”

But Clara thinks that was because he wanted to see if all their practice helped. It did. Clara was able to spar with Burns, and she didn’t pin her or actually land a hit, but Richards had told her she was improving. Clara had spent the rest of the day with a giant smile on her face.

“I might come today anyways,” Sitwell says. “I haven’t poked my head into the training, and Richards hates backseat instructing.”

“You’re going to cause trouble?” Clara asks. Sitwell might be more interesting than she gave him credit for.

“You ever see a ginger get mad?” Sitwell asks. “They turn red from the neck up. It’s hilarious.”

“Am I going to get in trouble for this?”

“I’ll keep you out if it,” Sitwell promises. “Don’t want Coulson getting after me.”

“Are you two partners?” Clara asks. “Why didn’t you go on the mission with him?”

“We’re both level 4 agents,” Sitwell answers. “This kind of mission doesn’t need both of us.”

“Then why didn’t you go instead of him?”

“He’s better at teaching during missions,” Sitwell says. “I get too focused on the mission, but he’s good at talking things through, explaining to the junior agents why he does or doesn’t do things. He’s also better at fixing their messes.”

When they get to the practice gym, there are quite a few surprised looks when they see that Sitwell’s with her.

Richards groans. “The hell did I do to deserve this?”

“Such a long list,” Sitwell says with a grin. “Where do I even start?”

“Warm-up!” Richards barks. Then, “Are you seriously staying?”

“I might learn something,” Sitwell says. “For example, right now I’m learning that you don’t want me here. That’s hurtful, Richards. We’re all a team at SHIELD.”

“What’s he doing?” Burns hisses while they run.

“I have no idea,” Clara says.

“We’re all going to be doing punishment push-ups today,” Mariah says.

“My arms hurt just thinking about it,” Madison adds. “Why isn’t Agent Coulson here?”

“Mission,” Clara answers. “I told Sitwell he didn’t have to come, but apparently he likes winding Richards up.”

“Lucky us,” Mason says.

It’s a normal training session except for Sitwell’s prodding, but Clara teaches her new friends how to stay under the radar, and it’s Harris and Sorel that take the brunt of the punishment push-ups. By the time the hand-to-hand session is over, everyone’s sweating, and Harris keeps shooting glares in Sitwell’s direction.

Sitwell either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Clara’s betting it’s the second.

They move to the other side of the gym, where all the weight lifting equipment, is because Richards told them knowing how to fight was no use if they weren’t strong enough to fight well, and now Clara’s learning how to lift weights.

She likes the machines, but the free weights are even better. Every time she squats she feels like the strong man.

She wonders how the circus is doing without her, if they’ve found a new Hawkeye. Maybe when Agent Coulson gets back she’ll ask him if SHIELD still has their eye on the circus. She’s still mad at Barney, but she wants to make sure he’s doing okay.

Clara’s doing something called skull crushers, because it’s a cool name and it works her triceps which are important for her shooting, when Harris and Sorel wander near her. They don’t notice her lying on the bench, or maybe they think she can’t hear them, because they’re talking about her.

“I’m just saying,” Harris says, “her shadow’s gone so it’s a good time to put her in her place.”

“Coulson’s coming back,” Sorel reminds him. “How pissed do you think he’ll be if he finds you were hazing his sniper while he was gone? Didn’t you hear about the paperclip incident?”

“Urban legend,” Harris says. “No one can actually kill someone with a paperclip. She thinks she’s better than everyone else. She’s not even a real trainee. I’m just saying someone should remind her of the hierarchy.”

“Is this about the time you sparred? It’s not like she kicked your ass.  _ That _ would’ve been embarrassing. She just talked shit. Let it go.”

“Richards hasn’t let it go,” Harris says.

“Richards is a puffed up asshole,” Sorel says. “I had a drill sergeant like him. You’ve got to let it roll off your back. You’re an easy target right now.”

“Fuck you,” Harris says and stalks off.

Clara keeps lowering the weighted bar towards her head and then raising it again, breathing steady like Madison taught her. It doesn’t surprise her that Harris doesn’t like her. Experience has taught her that the quickest way to make enemies is to show someone up, especially when you’re younger than them. And when you’re a girl.

It does surprise her that being Agent Coulson’s is enough to maybe make Harris back off.

She wonders if it’s like being Barney’s little sister. Growing up, there were a bunch of kids on the playground that wouldn’t dare try and throw a punch at her, because they knew that if anyone laid a finger on his little sister then Barney Barton would make their life hell.

She thinks she might like being Agent Coulson’s sniper better than being Barney’s little sister.

That night, after dinner, she goes to the shooting range and asks Agent Wesson if she can start using guns. If she’s going to be Agent Coulson’s sniper then she needs to be the best.

~*~

Doing her classroom work in Sitwell’s office is weird. He doesn’t have a little desk, but he doesn’t complain when she sprawls out on his couch with her packets. She’s been assigned two projects along with a bunch of review work, because Agent Coulson thought she probably wouldn’t want to do new stuff with Sitwell.

He’s right.

She was prepared to flat out refuse to do any reading with Sitwell, but Agent Coulson had thought ahead.

She has a book project and a math project. The math project is the most interesting. Agent Coulson told her she had to come up with a way math is useful to her and then make a presentation on it complete with math problems and illustrations.

She draws herself up in a tree with five different bad guys in various hiding places and shows how to use trigonometry to calculate what angle she needs to shoot at to hit them. The math is fun and so is the drawing.

Bad Guy #2 is dying a bloody death when Sitwell leans over her work.

“Nice,” he says. “But that’s not what the blood spray would look like. I can show you tomorrow if you want.”

“You’re going to shoot someone?” she asks.

“We’ve got simulations we can run,” he says. “It’s pretty cool. Dr. Rosetti’s barred me from running any more tests myself, but you’ve never seen them so I’m sure she’ll give you a demonstration.”

“Do I have to redo my project?”

“I think Coulson’s more interested in the math part then the blood part, but it’s up to you.”

“Can we go tonight?”

“I was thinking something different for tonight,” Sitwell says. “Have you been off-site yet?”

Clara sets her project aside so she can sit up. “Like out of SHIELD?” She shakes her head. “You’re gonna take me?”

“Why not? Our capital’s a nice enough city. We can get you a t-shirt. I <3 DC.”

“Can we get one for Agent Coulson too?”

Sitwell grins. “Of course.”

“And the food store?” Clara asks. “Can we go there too? Some of the other trainees made cookies in their room.”

“Anywhere you want,” Sitwell promises. “Well, anywhere within reason. Grocery store and tourist shop are two easy ones.”

“I’ll eat a really quick dinner,” Clara says.

New York was awake seemingly all night, but she doesn’t know if Washington DC will be the same. She doesn’t want to miss out.

“Actually, I was thinking we could eat in the city,” Sitwell says.

“Like at a restaraunt? Can we go now?”

Sitwell laughs at her enthusiasm. “Yeah. Whenever you’re ready.”

She’s in her cargo pants and her wallet is in one of her pockets. It’s pretty bare, just her SHIELD ID and her money card. She hadn’t been happy when Agent Coulson explained that her stipend went into a computer and that she wasn’t allowed to cash all of it. She took out as much as he let her and then she stashed it all around her room. She has two twenty dollar bills in her wallet, but she’s never had a reason to use them.

Until now.

She’s hoping she’s going to get to add her driver’s license to the cards in her wallet soon, but there isn’t a big rush, because it’s not like she ever goes anywhere. She also doesn’t see why she needs a license, because she knows how to drive, but Agent Coulson says joyriding in a hot-wired car isn’t the same as driving.

He’s just wrong.

“Is Agent Coulson going to be mad that you’re taking me into the city?” Clara asks, following Sitwell to the elevator. She’s practically vibrating in her sneakers she’s so excited. “Is this like you and Richards?”

“Nothing like that,” Sitwell promises. “Coulson could live happily in SHIELD without ever leaving except  for missions. He probably just forgot that not everyone’s a hermit like him.”

Clara’s second grade class had a pet hermit crab and now she’s picturing Agent Coulson as a hermit crab, crawling into his office like it’s his shell.

They go to a little store on the corner first. The windows are full of t-shirts and pictures of the city and little gadgets. She has to squeeze by a postcard display to get through the door and then immediately turns all her attention to it. She looks through every postcard. There’s the Washington Monument and the White House and the Lincoln Monument, but she doesn’t see SHIELD.

She turns the wire display. “Where’s your postcard?”

Sitwell laughs. “Like the Director would let anyone make postcards of the building.”

Clara’s going to have to find something else for her book then.

She abandons the postcards to look at the bobbleheads of the president and snow globes with the Washington Monument inside. There’s an entire wall dedicated to bumper stickers, but what she really wants are in the back of the store.

T-shirts.

Dozens of them.

There are ones with different monuments printed on them and a couple that just say USA in block letters made out of the flag, but she ignores all of those for a plain white t-shirt that says I <3 DC. She picks one up for Agent Coulson and is deciding on one for her when she sees purple out of the corner of her eye.

It’s the same t-shirt except the shirt is bright purple, and the letters are in white. There’s even florescent paint splattered across it. It’s possibly the best thing she’s ever seen.

She’s getting it.

Sitwell makes a face when he sees it. “Please tell me the purple on is for Coulson.”

“Please,” she says. “I’m giving him the boring one. He’s a classic guy.”

“And classic is boring?” Sitwell asks.

“Duh. I don’t hold it against him though.”

“Generous,” Sitwell says.

Clara pays with her fancy card, and she walks out of the little store with a plastic bag with two t-shirts in it. She feels a little dizzy, making her first purchase with her SHIELD stipend, and she kind of wants to run back in to buy the rest of the store and kind of wants to go back to SHIELD so she can hide in her room with her two t-shirts.

“Dinner?” Sitwell asks. “What’re you in the mood for?”

She perks up at the thought of food. “Pizza?”

“I suppose this is what I get for asking a teenager for their opinion. You do realize DC’s a real city, right? We can get steak or lobster or, hell, fondue, and you want pizza?”

“I like pizza,” she says.

She points down the street where a beat up sign reads DC House of Pizza.

“Hell no,” Sitwell says. “One, that place looks like you’ll be stuck on the toilet for three hours after eating there. Two, we’re going somewhere that does something besides pizza, because if I wanted pizza we would just eat at the cafeteria. Three, if you’re getting pizza, you’re not getting cheap shit.”

He takes her to a place called Uno’s. The lighting is dim and there are cushy booths and bottles of wine lining the walls as decorations. This definitely isn’t anything like Mama Vigliano’s.

A woman with tattoos peeking out from under her work t-shirt brings them to a two-person booth.

“Kate will be your server,” the woman says, “She’ll be by in a minute to get your drinks.”

“Thank you,” Sitwell says.

Clara opens her menu. The entire first two pages are different kinds of alcoholic drinks.

“You’re too young for those,” Sitwell tells her.

“Where are the normal people drinks?” she asks.

He flips her menu over. In the bottom corner of the dessert page is a list of drinks. She glances over the top of her menu to see Sitwell looking at the first two pages.

“You’re going to get one?” she asks.

He shrugs. “The cafeteria doesn’t serve beer.”

She doesn’t know how to ask  _ if you get one will you hit me _ without giving away more than she wants to. Instead she starts looking for the pizza options in the menu.

When the waitress comes back, Clara orders a lemonade and tries not to relax too visibly when Sitwell gets a Pepsi.

“And the Chi-Town sampler,” he adds.

The waitress writes this down. “Are you ready to order or do you need some more time?”

Sitwell looks over at Clara.

She looks right back. “I knew what I wanted before you brought us here.”

“I guess that means we’re ready,” Sitwell says. “I’ll do the fish and chips. Extra lemon, please.”

“And you?” the waitress asks looking at Clara.

“Pepperoni and meatball pizza,” she says. “Please.”

“Individual?” the waitress asks.

“Yes,” Sitwell answers.

Clara waits until she’s gone to ask, “What’d that mean?”

“An individual sized pizza,” Sitwell says. “Made for one person. And before you can tell me you can eat a five person pizza, I got us an appetizer. I’ve seen you at breakfast. I’m not going to take you out just to starve you.”

Clara sits back in the booth, surprised. “That’s nice,” she says, wary.

“You’re my trainee for the week,” Sitwell says. “I’m going to treat you right. And not just because Coulson’ll have me on desk duty for the next year if I don’t.”

“Agent Coulson threatened you?” she asks. Over  _ her _ ?

“You thought he’d chase you all over the country and then just leave you with any random person once he found you?” Sitwell shakes his head. “I had to talk him into going on the mission and promise that you’d be in one piece when he came back. I don’t know what trouble he thought we’d get up to in SHIELD.”

“You did take me off base,” Clara points out.

“To eat dinner and go grocery shopping. Not exactly the height of rebellion.”

She shrugs. “I must be a good influence.”

Sitwell laughs. “Something like that.”

“Were you and Agent Coulson trainees together?” she asks.

“Yes, but he was a transfer, and I was a direct recruit. SHIELD’s the only government agency for me.”

“How’d you hear about it then?”

“College professor. I wanted to go into some kind of government work, and Professor Ordway sometimes consulted when the Director was in a bind so he nudged me in SHIELD’s direction, and I figured 3-letter agencies were so yesterday so I went with SHIELD.”

He nudges her foot under the table. “That was a joke.”

“Oh.” She laughs. “It just happened? You didn’t even know anything about them?”

“I mean, Professor Ordway told me some things, but it was the meeting with the Director that sold me. Director Fury’s just the kind of guy that you see and want to impress. So I signed up. Met Coulson in training. He kicked my ass at everything but forensics. Figured a guy that good is the kind of guy you want to be friends with.”

“And now you’re babysitting for him?” Clara asks.

“Apparently it’s what friends do.” Sitwell shrugs. “My sister keeps getting stuck changing diapers for her friends’ kids so I consider myself lucky that babysitting in my world means taking you to the lab to watch blood splatter simulations.”

The waitress pauses at their table, wary, but puts down a basket of food.

“Sorry,” Sitwell says. “Work.”

“I’ve heard way weirder,” she assures him.

Clara stops paying attention to them, because the basket has chicken tenders and buffalo wings and French fries and chips and - are those mozzarella sticks? She doesn’t even know where to start.

“The fries are better dipped in the hot sauce from the wings than ketchup,” Sitwell tells her. He takes a mozzarella stick and bites into it. “Fried cheese is the world’s best invention.”

“Pizza,” Clara counters. She takes a mozzarella stick too. She dips hers in the marinara sauce.

“One track mind,” Sitwell says. “I guess I can’t really judge. I had a one track mind at your age, too. It just wasn’t pizza.”

“Really?” Clara asks.

“On second thought, let’s not talk about that,” Sitwell decides. “Wesson tells me he’s been giving you gun lessons. Already tired of your bow?”

They’ve been working their way through handguns, and Clara wants to try rifles next. “Agent Coulson said he wants me to be well-rounded. I figured that meant on the range and off it.”

“You won’t find a better teacher than Wesson; though, there are plenty that are more patient.”

Clara shrugs. “I pick things up quick. Things like this at least. And after you’ve shot a rigged circus rifle, really anything else is easier.”

“I hate those damn games,” Sitwell says. “I’m a government agent with a badge that lets me conceal a weapon in the White House if I have to, and I can’t win my niece a fu- a freaking stuffed animal at the carnival.”

“Every weapon has a different glitch,” Clara says. “It’s all about identifying it and adjusting for it.”

“Maybe I’ll bring you along next time the carnival comes to town,” Sitwell says.

“I’ll win games for you, but I don’t do kids,” Clara says.

“Always the youngest in the group?” Sitwell guesses.

She nods. “Is that in my file?”

“I haven’t read your file,” Sitwell tells her. “Agent Coulson has because he’s the one who put it together, and Director Fury might’ve, but we consider personnel files to be private.”

“What if you want to know something?” Clara asks.

“Then I ask you. Your file won’t have the interesting things anyways. I bet it wouldn’t tell me your favorite color.”

“Purple,” she says.

“Ah. That explains the t-shirt.”

“What does my file have then?”

“If I had to guess? Biographical information - your parents, any siblings, maybe beyond the extended family if that information if relevant or available. Level of education, places you’ve lived. Again, if I wanted to know your favorite subject in school I would ask you instead of looking up your 4th grade report card.”

“My parents are in there?” Clara asks. She wonders if Agent Coulson kept tracking them even after she went to the circus. Maybe he has an address. Maybe she can write her mom and tell her that she’s okay. She can tell her that she has a place to live and a kinda job and that things are really good for her.

“Can I look at my file?” Clara asks.

“Don’t see why not,” Sitwell says.

She wonders if they’ve been tracking Barney, too. Is he still at the circus? Did he leave after she left? Did Trick go with him? Maybe she’ll send them a postcard from DC. Probably better if she doesn’t. They weren’t very happy with her when she left.

She picks up a couple fries and drags them through the buffalo sauce. Sitwell was right, they’re really good.

~*~

The blood splatter simulation is pretty cool and Dr. Rosetti, a woman with tight black curls and a glare for Sitwell, even lets Clara takes pictures for her project. Dr. Rosetti probably thinks it’s for a science project, but neither Clara nor Sitwell correct her.

Anyway, what Clara’s more excited about is getting to look at her file, and so after the simulation, they put her groceries away in her room and go up to Agent Coulson’s office.

A swipe of Sitwell’s ID lets him into the filing cabinets and he rummages around a bit before he pulls out a folder and hands it to her.

It’s thicker than she thought, and she flips through it to see glimpses of report cards and incident reports and even some pictures. She’s amazed at some of the pictures that are in there; her and Barney, her and her mom, a rare one of the four of them.

“How’d he even get these?” Clara asks. She pulls out a picture of her and Barney up in their treehouse.

It was leftover from someone who lived in the lot before them, someone with a dad who was good with powertools, who had the money to buy wood for a toy. She and Barney spent a lot of time up there pretending to be pirates or knights in a castle.

She told the school nurse she fell out of it a couple of times to explain some of the bruises she came to school with.

She opens the file to the beginning. There’s a bunch of pictures of her there, school pictures, then a couple from the circus, then her SHIELD ID picture. She watches herself grow up in those pictures. She had a fat face as a baby. She doesn’t anymore.

The inside cover of the folder has what she wants to know. Under FAMILY it reads  _ One brother, Charles Bernard Barton, known by the nickname ‘Barney’. Status: living. _

And then -  _ Harold (father) and Edith (mother) Barton. Status: deceased. _

Beneath it is a clipping from a newspaper.  _ Harold and Edith Barton were killed in a drunk driving accident when Harold Barton lost control of his vehicle and crashed it into a tree. Both occupants of the car were killed on impact. Their two children were not in the car and have been filed as missing _ . Written below the article, in Agent Coulson’s handwriting it says  _ our investigation indicated Clara and Charles were missing long before this incident _ .

Clara feels numb. One word keeps jumping out at her from the page.

Deceased.

Deceased.

Dead.

Her parents are dead.

She won’t be sending them any postcards. She won’t be sending any letters or making any phonecalls.

She knew when she let Barney drag her out that door that one day her dad was going to be the death of her mom. She just didn’t realize - She should’ve done something. She should’ve made their mom come with them. She should’ve gone back. She should’ve -

Clara flips the folder closed.

“Barton?” Sitwell asks, concerned like he realizes something’s wrong.

“My parents are dead,” she says. They died a couple years after Clara and Barney went to the circus. They’ve been dead for  _ years _ and Clara just didn’t know. She’d gone through her life, and it never occurred to her that her parents were buried in the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Sitwell tells her.

“They’ve been dead a long time, I guess.”

“I’m still sorry. Especially that you found out this way.”

“Does it make it better if someone tells you?” Clara asks.

“Probably not,” Sitwell answers.

Clara hands him the file. “I wonder if my brother knows.”

“You have a brother?” Sitwell asks.

“He doesn’t like me very much,” Clara says. She wonders if Barney’s going to die and if it’ll take years for her to find out about that, too. “I think I’m going to go to bed. Thanks for taking me into the city.”

“Barton - Clara,” Sitwell says and she pauses at the door. “If you want to talk to someone -”

“I don’t,” she says. “I’ll be fine tomorrow. Promise.”

She slips out goes down to her room. When she gets there, she digs her book out of its hiding place. She pulls the picture she swiped from her file, the one of all four of them. They’re all smiling like they’re a happy family, like her mom’s makeup isn’t hiding tired eyes and Clara’s clothes aren’t hiding bruises. Dad has his hand on Barney’s shoulder like he’s proud and not holding Barney in place.

Clara puts the picture between the pages and curls up in her bed, book clutched to her chest.

Tonight, she can be sad.

Tomorrow, she trains again.


	8. Chapter 8

When she meets Sitwell for breakfast, he watches her like he’s waiting for her to say something, and when she doesn’t he seems to let it go, and they fall back into their usual pattern for the rest of the week.

She finds out that Agent Coulson is back from hushed whispers at lunch, and she can’t help but turn her head towards the gossiping agents to try and hear more.

“You didn’t know he was back?” Burns asks, because Clara’s apparently not very subtle about her eavesdropping.

“You knew he was back?” Clara asks.

“Clark’s back,” Burns says, like this is an answer.

Clara looks down at her tray. She polishes off her two slices of pizza in record time and puts her cookies on Burns’s plate. “Gotta go,” she says.

She puts her tray on the belt and then rushes to her room to get Agent Coulson’s t-shirt before going up to his office. The door is open and she stops in the doorway, face breaking out into a smile when she sees him sitting at his desk, in the same suit he always wears, like he never left.

“Stand up,” she says, because you can hide a lot of injuries by sitting. You can hide a lot with a suit, but she tries not to think about that.

“Hello to you, too,” Agent Coulson says.

She stares at him until he stands up. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t look like he’s favoring one side more than the other. Good.

She hands him the t-shirt. “For you,” she says. “Have you really killed someone with a paperclip?”

“Yes,” he answers. He shakes out the t-shirt. “Was this Sitwell’s idea?”

“I have a matching one,” she says. “Sitwell took me into the city. I got to go to the grocery store. My fridge is full. Oh! Does SHIELD have a brochure?”

“Of course,” Agent Coulson says, pulling one from his desk. He hands it over. “Why?”

She shrugs even as she slips it into her pocket. “Curious. I know you can’t talk about details, but was your mission good?”

“We were successful. In both the primary objective and the secondary objective of providing training to younger agents. I heard you’ve had a busy week. Agent Wesson says you’ve been trying out guns?”

“I want to be your sniper,” she says.

He looks like he has a dozen more questions so she cuts him off before he can ask them.

“Wanna see my projects? Sitwell took me to the labs so we could see the way blood splatter works.”

“How did blood splatter work into a book report and a math project?” Agent Coulson asks.

Clara grins and pulls her finished masterpiece out of her desk so she can show him. She drags her chair up to his desk and doesn’t even try to hide how happy she is that he’s back.

~*~

Agent Coulson’s been back for two days when she gets to his office to see none of her usual worksheets on her desk.

“Day off?” she asks.

“A discussion,” Agent Coulson says. He holds up a piece of paper she remembers filling out while he was gone.

She always wears her spandex to train, because it reminds her of being the Amazing Hawkeye, because she likes how she can be mobile and completely covered at the same time, but she’s noticed how the other female trainees wear shorts and how their legs are always smooth.

Clara’s never really had to shave before. She was too young when she lived at home and in a circus where there was a woman who prided herself on her beard no one cared whether Clara shaved her legs. It wasn’t an issue when she was living in New York either. It’s not really an issue now, but it’s something she wants to do.

“Did I do it wrong?” she asks. It’s not the first time she’s filled out a requisition form, but it’s the first time she’s asked for a razor instead of more shampoo or tissues.

“SHIELD has a policy,” Agent Coulson says. “No razors until your first psych eval.”

“You’re joking,” Clara says.

“I’m not.”

“I’m learning how to fight using my hands. I can shoot military grade weapons. And I can’t have a razor?”

“You can have a razor. Once you have a psych eval.”

Definitely not worth shaving. She takes the form from him and rips it into little pieces before dropping them in his trash can.

“You’re going to have to get evaluated if you ever want to become an agent,” he tells her.

She sits down at her desk.

“And given what happened while I was gone, this might be a good time to meet with our team,” Agent Coulson says.

She was wondering when he was going to bring up the fact that she’d read her file. Honestly, she thought he was going to bring it up sooner.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” she asks.

“I was. I wasn’t sure how or when, but I did intend to tell you.”

“I don’t see why I have to talk about it. My parents are dead. Everyone dies at some point. They just died sooner. It’s not like them being alive or dead affects me. Clearly, it didn’t, because I didn’t even know.”

“Psych evals are a standard part of SHIELD,” Agent Coulson tells her. “Just like you have physicals to make sure your body is healthy, we have psych evals to make sure your mind is healthy.”

Clara scowls. “My mind is fine. I don’t want anyone poking around in it.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why don’t you want anyone poking around? What’re you afraid they’re going to find?”

Clara narrows her eyes. “Is this a secret eval?”

“I’m not a psychologist,” Agent Coulson promises. “I’m just curious. You’ve been willing to do everything and try everything we’ve thrown at you so far. But this is something that’s non-negotiable if you want to be an agent, so I want to know why you’re so resistant to it.”

Clara sits back in her chair, considering. Agent Coulson watches her back, no pressure, just waiting to see if she’ll answer.

“Being predictable is dangerous,” she says.

“And if someone can get in your head then you think they can predict what you’re going to do?”

Clara shrugs.

“Psychology isn’t that exact,” Agent Coulson explains. “The goal is to understand why you react certain ways to certain things and in some cases to help you react differently if it’s a negative reaction. Our psychologists aren’t looking for advantages or looking for ways to hurt you. They want to help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“No razor,” he says.

She’s been fine without one for this long. She’ll continue to be fine. “Can I have my math packet?”

“Of course,” he says. He reaches into his desk and hands her her packet for the day. “We’re moving onto word problems.”

“I like math better when it’s just numbers.”

“Think of it as translating. You’re converting the words into numbers.”

“Like a code breaker?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Cool,” she says and takes her packet back to her desk.

~*~

The trainee class lasts twelve weeks and at the end of it, Clara gets to sit in the small audience of SHIELD junior agents and agents that attend the graduation. It’s nothing fancy, just Director Fury saying a few words, then Richards saying some stuff, and then each of the trainees gets called up by name and they’re given a pin with SHIELD’s logo and told they’re junior agents.

Clara pretends she’s not jealous.

Afterward, she invites Burns and the M-squad to her room, because she made them a cake.

“Agent Coulson says this is what you do for graduations,” she says, proudly displaying her slightly lopsided cake. Some of it stuck to the bottom of the pan when she pulled it out and she tried to make up for the unevenness with frosting, but she didn’t quite succeed.

“You didn’t have a high school graduation party?” Mason asks.

Clara shrugs. “Came here instead.”

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” Mason says.

Burns gives Clara a one-armed hug. “Thanks for the cake. We’ll have to do this for you. Just make sure you don’t graduate while we’re off in Mozambique or something.”

Clara must stiffen up or something, because Burns looks down at her. “What? You took the class with us and don’t think you’ll be able to ace it when it’s your turn?”

“Agent Coulson says there’s a mandatory psych eval, and I don’t want to do it.” She doesn’t really want to talk about it, either. They’re supposed to be celebrating.

“It’s not so bad,” Madison asks. “I got to actually lie down on a couch. After letting Richards wipe the floor with me, it was kind of relaxing actually.”

“You don’t keep secrets like this one,” Burns says, ruffling Clara’s hair. “She still won’t even tell me where she grew up.”

“I’m not that interesting,” Clara says.

“You were recruited by SHIELD before you got a chance to graduate high school, because you’re a prodigy with a bow and arrow of all things,” Burns says. “You’re definitely interesting.”

“I didn’t have a chance of graduating high school even without SHIELD,” Clara says, because Burns is  _ wrong _ . Clara’s not interesting. “I dropped out before that when my brother and I ran away from home. Agent Coulson’s working with me on getting my GED, but it’s really slow, because I’m not very smart.”

“You have a brother?” Burns asks. “I think that’s more personal information than you’ve ever volunteered before. Where is he now?”

Clara shrugs. “I ran away from him and was on my own for a year before Agent Coulson found me. Agent Coulson says they lost track of him which means he’s probably still alive.”

“Well, shit,” Mariah says. “And here I thought my parents getting divorced when I was in middle school was bad.”

“Talking to the psych staff might not be a bad idea, graduation requirement or not,” Burns says. “You’ve had a lot of shit happen to you for someone your age. And the best part about them? They keep secrets really well. You can tell them anything.”

“But all that stuff doesn’t matter. All that matters is right now.” Clara cuts herself a piece of cake. “And right now, we’re supposed to be happy ‘cause you’re all SHIELD agents now.”

“Junior agents,” Mason says.

“Still counts,” Mariah declares. She snatches the knife when Clara’s done with it. “Ooh, funfetti cake. This stuff is fucking awesome. All we need is some champagne and this’ll be a real celebration.”

Clara stiffens but covers it by going to find forks.

“You want to bring champagne into Barton’s quarters?” Burns asks. “Trying to see how fast you can get Agent Coulson on our asses? We’ll be back to trainees before you can pop the cork.”

“True,” Mariah says and happily eats her first bite of cake.

Burns nudges Clara’s shoulder and winks at her. Clearly Clara didn’t hide her distaste as much as she would’ve liked earlier.

“Besides,” Madison says, “Once it’s time for little trainees to be in bed, we can hit up the bars. Sorel was arranging some sort of pub crawl when we left.”

“I’m not that little,” Clara says.

“But you have a curfew and we don’t,” Mason says. “So glad I’m not a teenager any more. For a bunch of reasons.”

“What kind of agent are you if you couldn’t sneak out of your bedroom window when your parents were asleep?” Mariah asks. “I mastered that one at like 10.”

“That explains a lot,” Madison mutters, loud enough that she intended everyone else to hear.

It sparks off a round of good-natured teasing, and Clara leans against her kitchen counter, eating her cake and wondering how much things were going to change now that they’d all moved on and she was still stuck being a trainee.

~*~   
As it turns out, not much changes at first. Junior agents have to keep up with their training the same as trainees, and Burns and the M-squad still meet Clara in the practice gym after breakfast to work on their hand-to-hand or their strength or sometimes even just to go for a long run on the treadmill.

 

They still eat lunch together, and Clara still parts ways with them after to go up to Agent Coulson’s office and muddle through more work. She doesn’t like derivatives, but now that her reading’s improved she’s reading more interesting things even if she still doesn’t like reading.

 

She’s not ready for the flight manual yet, but Agent Coulson gave her a book called  _ Hatchet  _ about a boy who gets stranded on his own in the wilderness and has to figure out how to survive. It’s good but it’d be better if it was about a girl.

So things don’t change until two weeks after graduation when Mariah, Burns, and Mason come into the gym in the black bodysuits Clara knows mean a mission.

“First mission,” Mariah says, a giant grin on her face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Madison says. “Rub it in.”

“You’ll get to go on one soon,” Mason promises.

“You guys leaving soon?” Clara asks.

It’ll be just like when Agent Coulson left. They’ll be fine. They don’t send junior agents on the really hard missions.

“Yep,” Burns says. “We’re stealing Agent Coulson from you. Sorry about that.”

Clara forces herself to smile even though she doesn’t feel like it. “You better bring him back safe.”

“Of course,” Burns says. “Gonna give me a hug for good luck?”

“How are hugs good luck?”

Burns laughs and ruffles Clara’s hair. “Fine. We’ve got to head out, but we wanted to make sure we said bye to you first. Keep Madison from moping too much while we’re gone.”

“I’m not going to mope,” Madison says.

As soon as the three going on the mission leave the gym, Madison’s shoulders slump.

“It’s not so bad being left behind,” Clara says. “You wanna skip weightlifting and do gymnastics instead?”

“Weightlifting and then gymnastics,” Madison says.

“Okay.”

Madison’s a lot bigger than Clara is, over six feet tall, and solid, so they don’t lift together so much as lift in the same space. Clara does her rotation of machines, and Madison does a bunch of Olympic lifts, her quad muscles bulging as she deadlifts.

Clara likes being smaller. She used to hate it, wishing that she’d grow taller than Barney or big like the strong man, because then no one would mess with her. But being bigger just means attracting more attention. Clara’s good at fading when she needs to, really good at hiding, and she doesn’t think she could do all the flips and tricks she likes if she was built like Madison.

“Guess it’s a good thing if they didn’t need a bruiser on the mission,” Madison says on their way to the gymnastics gym. “Probably means they’re not doing anything too dangerous, right?”

Clara shrugs. “No one tells me anything.”

The gymnastics gym is one of the best places in all of SHIELD in Clara’s opinion, third only to the shooting range and the cafeteria. There’s a rock wall taking up an entire wall of the room with varying difficulties. There’s the standard parallel bars, uneven bars, rings, trampoline and all that but, and this is Clara’s favorite, there’s a whole acrobatic course on the ceiling. There’s a safety net below it but there are bars and platforms and ropes, and Clara loves to scramble through it.

Today, though, she goes for the trampoline first.

“You coming?” Clara asks. She jumps easy a few times, testing the bounce, and then jumps big so she can do two flips.

“I think I’ll just watch,” Madison says. “Please don’t break your neck.”

Clara rolls her eyes. “I grew up on this stuff. If it didn’t kill me yet, it won’t kill me now.”

Madison knocks three times on the floor.

~*~

Clara’s surprised when there’s a knock on her door that night. She’s even more surprised when she sees Madison there with a laptop in her hands.

“You ever watch  _ Buffy the Vampire Slayer _ ?” Madison asks.

Clara shakes her head and steps aside so Madison can come in.

“I think you’ll like it,” Madison says. “You want to watch a couple episodes?”

“Sure,” Clara says.

She clears off her table so Madison can put her computer down.

“Ooh,  _ Hatchet _ ,” Madison says when she sees the book in Clara’s hand. “That’s a good one.”

Clara shrugs. “It was okay. Agent Coulson only gives me books about boys to read. Girls can be cool, too.”

“You’re really going to like Buffy,” Madison says. “This was a good choice.”

Clara goes to put  _ Hatchet _ on her bookshelf. Agent Coulson insists that she keep every book she finishes, like a reward for reading or something. Clara doesn’t think she’ll ever read them again, most of them anyways, but it seems important to Agent Coulson that she has her own collection of books so she keeps them. It’s not like there’s much else to keep in her room.

They end up watching  _ Buffy _ until midnight, taking a quick break only long enough to make cookies. It’s fun, and Madison promises to bring popcorn tomorrow night, and Clara thinks she’s not the only one who doesn’t like being left behind.

~*~

They’ve started Season 2 by the time the others get back.

Clara and Madison are at lunch when Mariah and Mason walk through, a couple scrapes and bruises adorning visible skin, but nothing major injured. Cheers go up from the other agents in the room, and Mariah tosses off a lazy salute before Mason drags her over to where Madison and Clara are.

“Where’s Burns?” Clara asks, because there should be three of them and there are only two.

“Medical,” Mariah says. “Nothing serious. Just getting some stitches checked. If she doesn’t make it down for lunch, we’ll definitely see her at dinner.”

“Stitches?” Clara asks.

“Building chose to fall at a bad time,” Mariah says. “But she’s going to be fine, and she told me to tell you that we brought Agent Coulson back in one piece.”

“And you two are okay?” Clara asks, studying them.

“Never better,” Mason says. “Missions are awesome. I want to be in the field all the time.”

“I thought Agent Coulson was going to stick her with a sedative,” Mariah says. “She wouldn’t stop  _ bouncing _ .”

Mason’s practically vibrating in her seat even though they’re back from their mission, and Clara grins, imaging the way Agent Coulson’s eye would twitch as he tried to get her to sit still. She’s a fidgeter by nature, and most days he can easily ignore her, but there are some days where every time she clicks her pencil, he gives her a dark look.

She imagines that Mission!Agent Coulson is even more stringent about being quiet and still and as non-disruptive as possible.

Not of the first time, Clara wonders if she’s actually going to be any good as an agent.

“Are you allowed to talk about the mission?” Madison asks.

“Information retrieval,” Mariah says. “No casualties on either side. Things actually went about perfect except for the building collapsing. And that was just poor architecture.”

Clara leaves lunch early to go to medical even though she  _ hates _ medical. She’s even more annoyed when she finds out that Burns has already been released. She slips out of medical as fast as she can without running and then goes up to Agent Coulson’s office.

She’ll have to make sure Burns is okay later.

“Trainee,” Agent Coulson greets. “Sitwell says you didn’t give him any trouble while I was gone.”

“Why don’t you ever tell me when you’re leaving?” she asks.

“Would you like me to?”

She nods. It’s easier to keep track of people when they tell you where they’re going and when they expect to be back.

“I can do that in the future. Agent Wesson tells me you’ve run out of guns to try. Is that why you spent less time in the range?”

“Madison and I watched  _ Buffy _ after dinner. Can I start bringing my bow to the gym? Or set up something in the shooting range so I can work on non-traditional shots?”

“I’m glad you’re making friends. What’s your definition of non-traditional?”

“I want to jump off things.”

“Of course you do,” Agent Coulson says.

“Mariah said a building collapsed during the mission. What if I was on that building, and I needed to make a shot while it was falling? It’s something I should practice.”

“If you were on that building when it was falling you would probably be dead,” Agent Coulson tells her.

“But I would make the shot before I died,” Clara says.

Agent Coulson pulls his emergency bottle of Ibuprofen out of his desk and shakes two pills into his hand. “Remind me never to let you and Agent Trimble on a mission together.”

Clara grins. So Mason did drive him totally crazy. “Is that a yes on redesigning the shooting range?”

“We can make a few small adjustments,” Agent Coulson tells her. “But we’re working with Tony Stark on creating a simulation room that I think will do what you want.”

“Tony Stark?” Clara asks. “The guy who makes all our computers? Wait! He has that giant tower in New York. You can see it from like everywhere.”

“He needs attention to live,” Agent Coulson says. “Some people breathe oxygen, he breathes compliments.”

“You don’t like him,” Clara says. More than that, he  _ openly _ dislike Stark. This is completely new, which makes it interesting.

“He’s a genius,” Agent Coulson says, “and he makes weapons and other tech that is vital to what we do, but he’s young, rich, and makes phenomenally bad decisions.”

“Huh. So do I have to write a letter or something to Stark? We had to do that for school sometimes. If they wanted a new computer for the classroom we had to write the town council asking for money.”

“You don’t have to write Tony Stark a letter,” Agent Coulson assures her. “Director Fury is either threatening him, bribing him, or guilt-tripping him into making it.”

“Is he building it here?” Clara asks. She thinks it would be cool to watch him work. She would stay out of the way, because he’s a million times smarter than her and she wouldn’t want to mess anything up, but this is the guy who’s going to invent flying cars. She just wants to...stare at him from a distance? That seems kind of weird.

Agent Coulson is immediately wary. “Why?”

“I’ve never seen anyone invent anything. It could be cool. Besides, what if I have important input ideas?”

“I’m going to regret this,” Agent Coulson says. “When he comes to install the software, I’ll introduce you.”

“You better not be lying,” Clara says. “And you better not go on a mission to get out of it.”

“If I’m on a mission I’ll have Director Fury introduce you.”

“Not Sitwell?”

Agent Coulson shudders. “Absolutely not. Now, enough about Tony Stark. You have work to do. I got you a new book.”

He hands it over. It’s a textbook, and there’s a bunch of different pictures of the Earth on the front. One where it’s blue and green, another where you can see mountains and valleys, and another that cuts a quarter out of it so you can see the inside.

“Rocks?” Clara asks, because the book says  _ Geology: Study your Planet! _ on the front. “You want me to read about  _ rocks _ ?”

“Rocks are important,” Agent Coulson says.

She has no idea how he keeps a straight face when he says that. She groans and opens the book to the first page.

~*~

Burns is at dinner, and Clara makes a beeline for their table, demanding, “Where are you hurt?” not caring that Mason was in the middle of saying something.

“Hi to you too,” Burns says, but she rolls up her sleeve to show a white bandage taped to her arm. “I’d peel it back but it’s a little gross, and I’m hoping to keep my appetite long enough to eat.”

“You’re going to be okay?” Clara asks.

“Just a scar to remember my first mission by,” Burn promises. “Go get something to eat, and I’ll answer all your questions. Promise.”

Clara comes back with a tray full of food, and she puts a piece of mushroom pizza on Burns’s tray after she sits down.

“Pizza?” Burns asks.

“It’s yay you’re alive pizza,” Clara says.

“Then why is there mushrooms on it?”

Clara swaps it for her pepperoni pizza. “Better?”

“I still don’t get it, but sure.”

“Pizza solves all problems,” Clara says. “How come you didn’t notice the building was falling on you?”

“You know, most people were sympathetic when they found out I was hurt,” Burns says.

“You said you’re fine,” Clara says. “I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Why didn’t anyone notice the building was falling?”

“Can’t we just call it a battle wound and be done with it?” Burns asks.

“We could,” Madison says. “But friends who don’t tell their friends their embarrassing stories don’t get invited to Buffy night. We started watching while you were gone.”

“What?” Mason asks. “I love Buffy! Have you met Angel yet? Isn’t he  _ dreamy _ ?”

Clara wrinkles her nose. “He’s broody. And whiny.”

“He’s mysterious,” Mason counters. “And when he wears those tank tops that show off his arms? Yum.”

“I’m more of a Spike guy myself,” Madison says. “You haven’t met him yet, Clara. Next episode I think.”

“You more of a Xander gal?” Mariah asks.

Clara shakes her head. “I don’t like any of them like that.”

“Ah,” Burns says, “The days before crushes. I miss those days. I had a lot more free time to think about things like work and the future. You’ll start finding boys cute soon enough. Or girls. Either way, someone’s going to catch your eye.”

“I don’t think so,” Clara says.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony Stark comes to SHIELD once Clara’s well into Season 3 of Buffy and has confirmed, with certainty, that Spike is not “her type”. That, of course, led to a mortifying lunch where Burns and Mariah took turns pointing to different agents and asking her if she thought they were cute.

Clara wishes they could go back to talking about the best way to knock people out like they did before.

Anyways, there’s a buzz in SHIELD when he comes in, Stark on the lips of everyone in the hallways, in the cafeteria, while they’re training. Clara’s just as bad as the rest of them, peering around corners and poking into places she doesn’t usually go to see if she can catch a glimpse of him.

“I told you I would introduce you,” Agent Coulson says when she keeps twisting in her chair, just in case he walks by Agent Coulson’s office.

“Sorry,” she says and dutifully goes back to reading about rocks. The water erosion stuff is actually kind of interesting, but less than a minute later she’s looking over her shoulder again.

Agent Coulson gets up and shuts his blinds, then closes his door.

He’s just sat back down at his desk when she opens her mouth, but he cuts her off. “Every time you ask me when I’m going to introduce you, I’m going to push it back a day.”

“I hope the tectonic plates shift and you fall into the Earth’s core,” Clara says.

“If you think that’s how tectonic activity works then you’re misunderstanding your textbook,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara groans and bangs her head on her open book.

~*~

Clara got permission from Agent Coulson to fiddle with one of the stalls in the shooting range, but there wasn’t a lot of space so she only made two changes. There’s a bar across the stall that she’ll hang from to shoot upside down and a rope.

The rope is her favorite.

She likes to wind herself up in it and have someone give her a push and then see how well she can shoot while upside down  _ and  _ swinging.

“One push,” Agent Wesson tells her, his rule after the day she convinced him to push her for a good half hour.

“How am I going to get better if I don’t practice?” she asks.

“One.”

She takes what she can get. She winds her legs around the rope, anchoring herself with just the strength in her legs and raises her bow. Agent Wesson gives her a big push, and she fires her first arrow.

It lands dead center.

Agent Wesson wanders back to his desk, and she hears him say, “What’re  _ you _ doing here?” before she tunes him out, because this actually takes concentration.

She has to factor in the difference in angle depending on where she is in her swing, and the fact that she swings slower and travels less distance with each pass. She fires all eight arrows before she comes to a stop.

She holds onto her bow with one hand and uses the other to grab the rope and she slowly lowers herself, feet first, to the ground.

Someone whistles behind her, and she’s glad her feet are on the floor or else she probably would’ve fallen on her head.

“I didn’t know SHIELD agents knew how to have fun,” the whistler says.

She turns around to see  _ Tony Stark _ standing outside her stall. He’s in a pair of tattered jeans and a dirty t-shirt with a fading logo instead of the suits she always sees him in on TV, but it’s definitely him. The beard-thing gives him away.

“Not an agent,” Clara says. “I’m a trainee.”

“Ah. So they haven’t squeezed the fun out of you yet. I’m not sure what’s stranger, the bow or the rope. Did they pluck you out of a circus or something?”

Tony Stark is cool but that doesn’t mean she wants him knowing all her secrets, so she says, “You really think Agent Coulson would go looking through circuses for recruits?”

“Mr. Suit himself?” Stark shakes his head. “No, but I would pay money to see it. What’s with the rope then?”

She shrugs. “I get bored. I wanted to design a course where I could practice shooting while jumping off things, but Agent Coulson said no. I’ve gotten really good at shooting upside down, though.”

“Impress me,” Stark says.

Clara retrieves her arrows and hooks her legs over the bar so she’s hanging upside down before firing 11 arrows into the target. They make a pattern, and when she swings up so she’s sitting on the bar, she grins.

“S for Stark,” she says.

He looks at the target then back at her, grudgingly impressed. “Anyone ever tell you no one likes a show off?”

“Not as many times as you’ve been told, I’m sure,” Agent Coulson says appearing next to Stark. “Mr. Stark, might I ask why you’re doing in the shooting range?”

Stark’s body language changes immediately. He slouches, looking bored, and smirks at Agent Coulson. “I’m a weapons expert. Where better to draw inspiration than the shooting range?”

“I thought you were here making a simulator,” Clara says. “Will I be able to jump off buildings in it?”

Stark keeps looking at Agent Coulson. “Did you know that she has a strange fixation with jumping off high places?”

“I do,” Agent Coulson says. “Tony Stark, I would like you to meet Trainee Barton. Trainee, this is Mr. Stark. He’s a consultant for us.”

“Reluctant consultant,” Stark says. “You always leave that part out. My father helped found this place so I feel familial obligation to help out when I can.”

Agent Coulson looks like he has several replies to that, but he keeps his mouth shut. Clara kind of wants to watch Agent Coulson struggle, because she’s never seen him so openly dislike someone before, but she also wants to go back to hanging out with Stark.

“Agent Coulson says you’re a genius,” Clara says, swinging her legs. “How smart are you?”

“I had two masters by 19,” Stark says, looking bored again.

“Masters?” Clara asks. “What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m really smart.”

Clara laughs. “Do you really make weapons? I made myself my first bow, but when I was better than my brother, I got his bow.”

“He probably didn’t like that much,” Stark says.

Clara thinks about Barney’s face when Trick took the bow away from him and gave it to Clara. She hadn’t meant to show him up. She was just jealous that Trick was giving him all the attention and that he didn’t have time for her anymore. So she made herself a bow, because she wanted to be like him, wanted to be an archer.

When Trick gave Barney’s bow to her, Barney broke hers.

Clara shrugs. “It was a weak bow. Broke easy. Your weapons probably don’t break.”

“I have a bit more experience in the weapon-making department,” Stark says. He’s smiling like that’s funny to him. “Don’t have any experience with bows, though. I’m more a modern guy.”

“Did you know that there are explosive arrows?” Clara asks. “Agent Coulson still won’t let me test them out. Or the grappling hook arrows. Even though we’ve established that perches are sometimes precarious, and I might need to leap from one building to another during a mission.”

“Precarious?” Stark asks. “That’s a big word for a little kid.”

Clara flushes, embarrassed, then angry that she’s embarrassed. Of course he thinks she’s a stupid kid. He was smarter as a kid then she’ll ever be in her whole life.

She slides off the bar and jabs the button to bring her target in. “Well, have fun inventing things.”

“You’re a prickly little thing,” Stark says, sounding a bit chastised if not sorry.  

“I’m not little,” she snaps.

“You are,” he says, “I am, too. It’s fine. Us vertically challenged people have to stick together. Agent here isn’t invited to our club, though. I’m pretty sure he wears heel lifts in his shoes.”

“I think you’re projecting,” Agent Coulson says.

Clara yanks her arrows out of the target, ruining the S she made.

“Hey!” Stark says, like he’s just gotten an idea. “You want to help me set the simulator up? I’ve gotten a few basic scenarios pre-programmed, and I’ll need someone to test them, and it sounds like I’ll need to design one for the acrobatically inclined.”

“I’ll help you,” Clara says, “but you don’t need to do anything special for me.”

Stark scoffs. “Can’t go delivering shoddy work. Reputation is everything in this business.”

“Yeah,” Clara agrees, because she gets that. Belatedly, she realizes she should probably check with Agent Coulson to make sure this is something she’s even allowed to do. She slowly looks over at him, afraid of the expression that’ll be on his face.

“It’s fine,” Agent Coulson says. “Just as long as Mr. Stark remembers that you’re both underage and a ward of SHIELD. And that I am an excellent shot.”

Stark waves off the threats like he’s used to them. “Your trainee’s virtue is safe with me. C’mon trainee, let’s go blow some virtual shit up.”

Clara grins. “Should I bring my bow?”

“So much regret,” Agent Coulson mutters.

Clara takes her bow and quiver with her and follows Stark to where Practice Gym 4 has been under construction for the past month. Suddenly, it makes a lot more sense. They’ve been preparing it for whatever it is Stark is going to do to it.

“How do simulators work, anyhow?”

“I’m starting to think the reason Agent sent you along with me was to give his ears a break.”

Clara flushes and looks down at her feet. Be quiet and people won’t notice you. If they don’t notice you they won’t send you away.

“Hey,” Stark says. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. I usually listen to music when I work. I can tune your questions out just as easily.”

“Or you could answer them,” she says, feeling bold.

Stark goes into a closet off of the gym, and Clara’s surprised to see it full of electronics instead of equipment. She grabs an extra punching back and drags it over to sit on.

“It should make imaginary enemies for you to fight. Ones that will react to special guns, arrows, or other weapons in realistic ways.”

“Special guns?”

“Like laser tag,” Stark says. “But way cooler.”

There’s a bag in there, and Stark pulls out a wrench and starts fiddling with a box full of blinking lights. Clara leans closer to see what he’s doing.

“I can feel you breathing on me,” Stark says.

She scoots back. “Shouldn’t you be wearing safety goggles? I had to wear them when Sitwell and I did our blood experiment.”

“Blood experiment? That sounds shady.”

“We tested blood spatter patterns. It was really cool.”

“Very CSI.”

“Sure,” Clara says. “I was drawing people getting shot to death with arrows, and Sitwell told me my blood spatter wasn’t authentic so we got to go to the lab to see what it would look like if you shot someone from different distances. Agent Coulson didn’t appreciate the dead bad guys, but all my math was right so he was happy about that.”

“Mm.”

Stark whacks something with his wrench and the lights flicker. He whacks it again and they go out completely.

“Well, shit,” he says.

“Does hitting things usually fix them?” Clara asks as the emergency lighting pops up.

“Eh, 50-50. This is going to be a long night.”

“Pizza?” Clara asks hopefully.

“That is the best idea you’ve had yet.” Stark pulls a cell phone out of his pocket.

Agent Coulson has a cell phone and so do most of the other agents, but none of them have one that fancy. Clara supposes if you invent cell phones then you probably have the best all the time.

“Does pizza even deliver to secret government agencies?” Clara asks.

“Pizza gets delivered anywhere I want it to,” Stark says. “Perk of being the sole heir to Stark Industries. You want one?”

Clara nods. “Pizza’s my favorite.”

Stark orders two extra large pizzas, one cheese, one pepperoni before snapping his phone shut. In the dim light of the emergency lighting he looks tired.

“Fury’s going to kill me if I knocked out the power to the whole building.”

“He’d be here by now if you did,” Clara says. “It’s not like it’s a secret where you’re working.”

“Strangely comforting,” Stark says. “You know anything about electrical circuits?”

“Always wear rubber gloves?”

Stark side-eyes her. “You should probably be sitting further away from where you are.”

“I’m not gonna get hurt,” Clara says. “Besides, I wanna watch. I’m at SHIELD to learn new things, and simulation rooms are definitely new.”

“Why  _ are _ you at SHIELD?” Stark asks. “I didn’t think they recruited so young.”

“To learn new things,” she says. Duh, she just said that.

“You just walked through the front doors and said, I want to learn how to kill people?”

“Agent Coulson found me,” she says. “And I don’t want to kill people. He said I didn’t have to.”

Stark looks over at her, pity in his eyes. “Kid, you shoot better than anyone I’ve ever seen. As soon as they think you’re old enough they’re going to put a gun in your hands and tell you where to point. Trust me. It’ll probably be a gun I made. SHIELD isn’t one of my biggest contracts for nothing.”

“Then I’ll leave,” Clara says. That’s always been her plan. Stay until it didn’t make sense and then take everything she knows and make something out of her life.

Stark laughs. “And do what? Aim like yours, you got two options. Work for SHIELD and hope you only kill the bad guys or work for the bad guys and hope you don’t get killed by SHIELD.”

“It’s not like that,” she says.

“Right,” Stark says but he lets the subject drop.

He fiddles with the box, and it sparks ominously, and he mutters a few curses at it.

Agent Coulson comes by a few minutes later with two boxes of pizza.

“Didn’t peg you for a delivery guy,” Stark says.

Agent Coulson shines his flashlight directly in Stark’s eyes. “The delivery guy didn’t have clearance to make it past the lobby.”

He looks over at Clara and she puts her hands up. “I didn’t turn the lights off. Promise. I haven’t touched anything. The pizza was me, though.”

“I figured.” Agent Coulson turns his attention back to Stark. “I gave the kid a forty dollar tip.”

“I usually do fifty,” Stark says. “You’re kind of cheap. Want a slice of pizza?”

“No. Trainee Barton, don’t stay up too late. Junior Agents Burns and LaFaille want to spar during first session tomorrow. I already said yes on your behalf.”

“Will I ever get to sleep in again?” Clara asks.

“I thought a 7am wake-up  _ was _ sleeping in,” Agent Coulson says. “Goodnight, trainee. Stark, whatever you break, you buy.”

Stark waves him off. “Time for good little Agents to recharge.”

“You two don’t like each other,” Clara says once Agent Coulson is gone.

“Different life philosophies,” Stark says. “He’s wants to live the monk life - denying himself all pleasure and trying to make the world a better place. I just want to have fun.”

“You’re helping us,” Clara points out.

“I also want to prove I’m a better weapons maker than my father,” Stark says. “Speaking of, how do your parents feels about you getting trained to be a killer?”

“They’re dead.”

“Mine too.” Stark seems to notice the pizza for the first time. “Wanna eat pizza and cry about being orphans?”

“I don’t cry,” Clara says. She takes a slice of pizza out of the box.

“Neither do I,” Stark says.

~*~

Clara’s a little tired when she spars the next morning but more than that, she’s distracted. She can’t stop thinking about what Stark said, can’t help but wonder if SHIELD really is too good to be true.

“Okay, you’re not even trying,” Burns says after knocking Clara flat on her back.  _ Again _ . “What gives?”

Clara accepts the hand up. “Did you have to kill anyone on your mission?”

Burns’s hand goes limp in Clara’s. Burns immediately pulls her hand back and brushes her shorts off. “What kind of question is that?”

Mariah is watching them, wary.

Clara thinks she said something wrong. “I told Agent Coulson I didn’t want to kill anyone, but Stark said there’s no point in training a sniper who won’t kill people.”

“Stark?” Burns asks.

“Tony Stark. He’s here building something.”

“First of all,” Burns says, relaxing, “Don’t ever talk to Tony Stark. Second of all, if you do, make sure you know everything that comes out of his mouth is bullshit.”

“So I don’t have to kill people to be a SHIELD agent?”

“You always have a choice,” Burns says.

Clara doesn’t feel as comforted as she thinks she’s supposed to.

~*~

She seeks Stark out after dinner. She brings the six-pack of pudding from her fridge and two spoons.

“You came back,” Stark says. He looks surprised.

“So did you,” she says.

“I promised I would do this,” he says, “and I intend to do it. I got the lights working again.”

“That’s good,” Clara says. “You want a pudding?”

He stops messing around with wires and looks over his shoulder at her. He looks even more tired than he did last night. Clara wonders how long he stayed up after she went to bed.

She holds a pudding cup out.

“Why not,” he says, and takes it from her.

She hands over a spoon too.

“Didn’t peg the SHIELD mess for having pudding cups,” he says, peeling the top back and licking it clean.

“They’ve got pudding in bowls,” Clara says. “These are from my fridge. I have a fridge here.”

“Just a room with a fridge?” Stark asks.

She thinks he’s teasing her. She blushes. “I’ve got a bed too. But I can make cookies in my room. I don’t even have to eat a vegetable first.”

“This is usually a problem?”

Clara sighs. “Agent Coulson told Charlie I’m not allowed to have dessert until I have a fruit or vegetable at each meal. And corn doesn’t count. Which is bullshit.”

“You a corn enthusiast?” Stark asks.

“We ate it a lot growing up. I still think it’s a vegetable.”

“It’s a heated debate,” Stark says. “Starchy vegetable or grain. No one can quite decide. Is the strict diet a trainee health plan or Agent mother-henning you?”

“I’m not complaining,” Clara says quickly. “I like it here. And it’s cool to have fresh fruit all the time. And to have vegetables that didn’t come from a can or a frozen bag. Have you ever had a grapefruit before? Agent Coulson showed me how to eat one. A lot more work than they’re worth. He really likes them, though.”

“He seems like the kind of guy that would want to work for his food. I prefer simpler things. Mini quiche for example, just pop them in your mouth and done.”

“Mini quiche? What’re those?”

Stark talks about his fundraisers and the endless list of appetizers that can be found at them while he works, and Clara definitely wants to try quiche. She’s not as sold on the caviar or shrimp, but baby egg muffins are definitely on her list of things to try.

Talking about his fundraiser food leads into talking about his fundraisers and the art scholarship he runs in his mother’s name.

“Not all underprivileged kids get recruited to SHIELD,” he says.

“Instead they get recruited to college,” Clara says. “Probably for the best SHIELD found me. I never would’ve made it to college.”

“You don’t know that,” Stark says.

“Yes I do.” Clara puts her empty pudding cup on the floor and picks up another one.

“Sweet tooth?” he asks, giving her his empty one.

“We didn’t have a lot of dessert growing up,” she says. It was hard enough to get bread and milk and things that they needed let alone extra stuff.

“Another thing to thank SHIELD for,” Stark mutters.

“SHIELD’s been good to me,” she says. “Better than anyone else.”

“I’m guessing that doesn’t mean much,” Stark says.

Clara rips her pudding open. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Good is relative,” Stark says. “I’m guessing SHIELD didn’t have to do much to seem like the best thing you’ve ever seen.”

Clara scowls instead of confirming. She shoves a spoonful of pudding into her mouth.

“Yeah,” Stark sighs. “And Fury talks shit about  _ me _ .”

~*~

Clara ate lunch with Burns and the M-squad, but when she gets to Agent Coulson’s office for their lesson, his door is cracked open instead of all the way open. She pauses instead of pushing it open, and she’s glad when she hears raised voices coming from inside.

“She’s a kid!” That’s Stark. Clara’s never heard him shout before, but she recognizes his voice.

“She’s my responsibility, not yours.” And that’s Agent Coulson, mild as ever.

Clara thinks they’re talking about her.

“And what a good job you’re doing with that,” Stark sneers. “Scooping her out of whatever sad life she was living and giving her all this, making her so indebted to you she won’t even blink the first time you put a rifle in her hands.”

“Just a question,” Agent Coulson says, a waver in his usual calm. “In this hypothetical situation, is she holding a Stark rifle or one of Justin Hammer’s?”

“You sanctimonious piece of shit,” Stark says.

Clara takes that as her cue to interrupt. She goes back down the hallway then rushes into the office, pushing the office door open with a breathless, “Hi, Agent Cou - oh. You have company. Sorry.”

She starts to back out, but Agent Coulson stops her.

“It’s all right,” he says. “Stark and I were just finished talking.”

“How’s the project coming?” Clara asks. “I was thinking of getting a harness and trying to rig up a new course in the shooting range. The upside down thing is so last month.”

“Before you start trying to scare me into an early heart attack,” Agent Coulson says, pulling out a packet and handing it to her, “do that.”

“Is that trigonometry?” Stark asks, following her paper.

She takes it back to her desk. “Not all of us are geniuses,” she says.

She curls around her paper, protective, and a little embarrassed to be working on something he probably mastered at five.

“The simulator should be ready for testing tonight,” Stark tells her. “If you want to try it out.”

“Do I need a bow?” she asks.

“Special guns,” he reminds her. “I’ll see if I can come up with some kind of special bow.”

“Guns are fine,” Clara says. “You don’t need to go through any trouble for me.”

“I’m sure Agent wants you training with your preferred weapon.”

“Stark,” Agent Coulson says, warning.

“I’ll get Chinese tonight,” Stark says. “Enough for two in case you decide to show. No pressure, though. There are plenty of lab rats here to choose from.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him, and Clara gets through two problems before she realizes Agent Coulson hasn’t gone back to work. He’s still looking at her, waiting, apparently, for her to notice.

“How much did you hear?” Agent Coulson asks.

“Hear of what?”

He puts his elbows on his desk, prepared to wait her out.

She shrugs. “A bit. I don’t like yelling.”

Agent Coulson nods like this makes sense to him. “I meant what I told you in the diner when we first met. You get to decide where your moral line is. SHIELD won’t make you kill.”

That diner seemed forever ago, Clara dirty and tired and distrustful. She went with him, because he fed her, and because she didn’t have any better options. Not all that much has changed since them.

“Will they let me go if I don’t?”

“No,” Agent Coulson tells her. He gets up from his desk. “I think it’s time to show you what R&D is working on. Leave the packet. Math will still be here tomorrow.”

She’s curious, because not much is allowed to interrupt class, and she follows him down to R&D. They take the stairs because it’s only one floor, and Agent Coulson scans his card to get them into Room 812. There are two guys in lab coats and a woman in civilian clothes in the room. The men are sitting at a table with a microscope, taking turns looking into it and muttering. The woman is using a paintbrush to put something on the tip of an arrow.

“It’s a paralytic,” Agent Coulson explains. “We’re still working on making one that will still work even after extended exposure to the air and figuring out the appropriate dosage, but we’re hoping they’ll be ready for when you graduate from the trainee program.”

“I don’t get it,” Clara says.

“You never miss what you aim for,” Agent Coulson says. “The paralytic is designed to knock out your target. Hit him in the hand, and he’s out of the way but not dead.”

Clara goes still next to him, hope and gratitude filling her up. Would they really waste money and time making something like that for her? All because she doesn’t want to kill anyone? Is she really that useful?

“There are some complications of course,” Agent Coulson says. “Like if you scratch yourself you could knock yourself out. We’re investigating the possibility of syringe type arrows where the paralytic is injected upon impact, but that’s much more complicated. We’re going to keep working on it, of course. Like I told you, we honor your choices.”

“You’d really do that for me?” Clara asks. She takes a step towards the arrow before taking two steps back.

Agent Coulson puts a hand on the small of her back and leads her forward. “Trainee Barton, I want you to meet Dr. Busch. She’s one of our top weapon engineers. Dr. Busch, this is Trainee Barton.”

“The wunderkind with the bow,” Dr. Busch says. “Nice to meet you. You a clumsy kid?”

Clara shakes her head.

“Good. This stuff is instantaneous. Knocking yourself out on an op wouldn’t reflect well on SHIELD. Hope you don’t overheat easily, because it’ll probably be best to keep you in a full bodysuit all the time.”

“Mask?” Clara asks. She’s worn ridiculous outfits for the circus. It won’t be any worse to wear on for SHIELD.

“I hope you’re not planning on scratching up your face with an arrow. I was thinking long sleeves and gloves. As little skin showing as possible. Before you go getting any ideas, Coulson, that’s not my department.”

“I’ll make sure to bring your suggestions to the right department,” Agent Coulson says. “Have you begun testing with the arrows?”

Dr. Busch glances at Clara and waits for Agent Coulson’s nod before she says, “Yes. Hence the two over there adjusting the formula.”

She jerks her thumb over at the two men in labcoats. They look up from their microscope and wave. Clara waves back.

“You always have a choice,” Agent Coulson promises her.

“And I’ll always be your sniper, no matter what I choose?” she asks.

“I spent a lot of time looking for you,” Agent Coulson tells her. “I’m not going to let you go easy.”

Clara smiles, comforted.

~*~

“They’re designing special arrows for me so I don’t have to kill people,” Clara tells Stark when she shows up to the simulation gym.

He looks over at her, surprised that she’s here or maybe at what she said. “You must be one hell of a shot.”

“You saw me at the range,” Clara says.

Stark shrugs. “I just make weapons. I have no idea what people look like when they’re good at them.”

“You don’t seem to like it,” Clara says, “Making weapons. Why do you?”

“To be better at it than my dad,” he says. “Or maybe to make him proud. Depends on the day, I guess. Why do you shoot things?”

“It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

He nods. “Yeah, there’s some of that in there for me, too.”

“But you make computers,” she says. “And phones. You’re good at other stuff too. You’re a genius, remember?”

“Maybe I want to feel like I’m helping people,” he says.

She doesn’t think he believes it.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s test this sucker out.”

He types something into the computer he’s connected to the wall, and the lights in the room dim. It’s different from where they flickered out before, and in the corner of the room, an orange blob begins to appear.

“You’re gonna need this,” Stark says, tossing her a gun.

She’s alarmed that he’s just throwing it around, but a quick study of it reveals that while it looks like a handgun and weighs the same as a handgun, there’s something wrong with the barrel.

“Laser,” Stark reminds her. “Also - incoming.”

She looks up and the orange blob is now an orange person, running at her with some kind of stick in its hands. She raises the gun and pulls the trigger, a red dot showing up on the body’s shoulder before little bits of orange are flung in various directions.

“Wounded but not dead,” Stark says. “Shoulder injury prevents attacking with right arm but - oh, yep, it’s ambidextrous.”

Clara shoots its other shoulder and it goes down.

“Wonder if it’ll try to bite you,” Stark says.

When it sits up, she puts her next shot through its head.

“One down,” Stark says.

Another orange blob become a person, and this one has a gun. Clara ducks and rolls away from a red beam and comes up shooting. It goes down.

“In a real simulation you’d be in a special outfit,” Stark says, “That way you’ll feel when you get shot.”

Clara puts a bullet through an orange person’s heart and watches as it scatters apart, the simulation’s version of dying. She reminds herself this is just pretend. These aren’t real people.

“It’s about to get tougher,” Stark tells her.

Two blobs materialize, and Clara puts them down with ease. Next, two appear but on separate sides of the room. She shoots one while diving, anticipating that they’ll be shooting back. Her dive becomes a roll and she shoots at where she expects the other target to be as soon as she’s on her feet.

She’s beginning to breathe hard and is eyeing the rock climbing wall like she wants to make the simulation more interesting when Stark says, “Okay, enough. It’s definitely working.”

“The orange guy isn’t going away,” Clara says. She keeps her gun up in case she needs to use it.

“I haven’t shut down the program yet,” Stark says. His fingers fly over the keys of his keyboard. “I’m telling him to stand down.”

“Just like that?” Clara says. She mimes typing.

“Coding,” Stark says. “Watch this.”

He’s grinning as he types something else, and Clara looks over to see the orange guy - dancing? She looks over at Stark, who looks years younger with a smile on his face.

“That’s so cool,” Clara says. “You can make him dance just by typing some things?”

“Coding,” Stark says again. “But yeah.”

“Can I learn?” Clara asks, coming to look over his shoulder. Whatever language he’s typing in isn’t one she recognizes. “Woah, what is this? Is that even English? How many languages do you know?”

Stark laughs, but it isn’t mean. “Welcome to computer nerdom,” he says. “If you really want to learn, I can give Agent some intro stuff. You can design websites and things.”

“Can I learn to make the guys dance?” she asks. What she really wants to know is whether she can make programs of her own.

“That’s advanced stuff, but I don’t see why not,” Stark says.

She hesitates. “Like advanced for me or advanced for you?”

“Advanced for you,” he says. “Coding is just a bunch of memorization. Mostly. Kind of. I just offended a lot of people who wear socks with their slippers. You can work your way to coding holographic programs, but it will take a long time.”

Clara shrugs. “Not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Stark says, expression darkening again. “Well, I better get back to the Tower before Obadiah puts out a missing person alert on me.”

“Obadiah?” Clara asks. “Is he like your Agent Coulson?”

“Not quite,” Stark says. “He doesn’t care if I eat my vegetables before having dessert.”

“He should,” Clara says. “Vegetables are important. Thanks for making this for us. I know you didn’t really want to, but I’ve been getting bored and this should keep me entertained for a month or so.”

“A month? You wound my ego.”

“Burns says your ego can take it.”

Stark laughs. “Burns is right.” He turns serious as he looks at her. “Look, if SHIELD doesn’t work out for some reason, come find me. Big giant tower in New York City. Hard to miss. I’ll teach you to code. It’ll be fun.”

“Would you buy me pizza every night?” she asks.

“Only if you eat your vegetables first.”

Clara grins. “Okay.”

She doesn’t plan on going anywhere, and she knows Stark knows that, too. It’s in the way he looks a little sad even when he tries to smile at her. She doesn’t get why he’s sad. Her life’s great now. She’s fed every day and has a warm place to sleep and she has friends and she’s going to learn how to make holograms dance.

“See you around,” she says, popping to her feet before he tries to hug her.

“Yeah,” he says.

He presses a button and the orange man disappears.


	10. Chapter 10

Clara  _ loves  _ the simulation room. There’s a long waiting list to get in and use it, but she finds that if she sets her alarm for 2am then there’s no competition to use it. Since she has to swipe her card to get in, she knows Agent Coulson must know what she’s doing in the early hours of the morning, but he doesn’t tell her to stop so she keeps going.

It feels good to shoot at something besides targets even if she has to use a gun and has to make kill shots, because nothing else will stop the orange men. She reminds herself that there are arrows being specially made for her. Arrows that mean she just has to hit an unprotected part of the body to take a target out.

Of course, every time she showers, she’s reminded of something else.

She still hasn’t shaved her legs since coming to SHIELD.

She still doesn’t have clearance to own a razor, because she hasn’t let SHIELD’s shrinks dig around her head.

It’s probably stupid that this is what’s going to stand between her and becoming an agent. Especially since they won’t let her be a trainee forever. Eventually she’ll have to decide whether to become an agent or leave.

She doesn’t think she’d do well on her own.

Yeah, she could survive, but she now wants more. She wants more than to just survive. She wants to be happy. She thinks she could be happy at SHIELD.

But first she has to invite someone into all of her fears and shames and secrets. She’s not sure she’s ready for that.

~*~

It’s February, and Mason’s making plans to drink herself stupid on Valentine’s Day, because apparently her boyfriend just broke up with her because she “crossed the line from mysterious to secretive”.

Those plans are interrupted when Agent Coulson stops by their dinner table to say, “Agents Trimble, Warlick, and LaFaille, you’re needed in briefing room 4.”

“Mission sir?” Mariah asks already getting to her feet.

“Yes.”

“Leave your trays,” Burns says. “We’ll take care of them for you.”

“Thank you,” Mariah says.

The three of them follow Agent Coulson to a different table where they pick up Harris and Sorel before heading out of the cafeteria.

“That’s a lot of people for a mission,” Clara says.

This isn’t the first or even second mission her friends have gone on, but Clara’s still nervous. She doesn’t like it when the people she cares about are out of sight, out of range for her to protect them. They could die - like her parents or Agatha - while she’s just sitting here, and she might never know.

“Agent Coulson’s the best handler there is,” Burns says. “He’ll take care of them.”

Clara eyes the door suspiciously but lets the subject drop.

~*~

Instead of going out with Mason for Valentine’s Day, Burns takes Clara out the day after.

“Honestly, this will be better,” Burns says, bringing Clara to her favorite bar. “No having to listen to heartbreak. Not that I don’t feel bad for her, getting dumped sucks, but she picks the worst men to date.”

Clara still doesn’t get the big deal about dating so she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she looks up at the TV. On screen, Tony Stark is stumbling out of some fancy apartment building in nothing but his underwear as he’s pelted with what looks like teddy bears. The woman throwing them is glaring like she wishes she was throwing grenades or something not-squishy.

“Someone had a bad night,” Clara says.

Burns follows her gaze and snorts. “Good night. Bad morning. It’s his MO. He’s a bit of a playboy.” Burns squints at the TV. “He’s also high. Or coming down from a high. His life is one big party.”

“He makes our weapons,” Clara says. “And all of our tech.”

“Doesn’t mean he hasn’t got a shitty personality.”

Clara shrugs. “I guess.”

“Don’t tell me you have a crush on him,” Burns says. “I know he’s got the bad boy thing going, but he’s like twice your age. And he has a drinking problem.”

“It’s not a crush,” Clara says. “He made one of the holograms dance. I’m learning how to code so I can do it, too.”

Burns looks over at her like she doesn’t believe her. “Stark is bad news. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m bad news too,” Clara says.

Burns just laughs and flags the bartender over to order them each a shirley temple.

~*~

Clara’s in Sitwell’s office, struggling to code a basic website, when the orange light on his phone flashes. Clara immediately abandons her project. Red light means emergency, but orange light means something’s wrong but they don’t need to get battle ready.

Sitwell picks up his phone. “Agent Sitwell. Report.”

He listens, nodding, his face not giving anything away no matter how hard Clara stares.

When he hangs up, he looks over at her, and she holds her breath.

“Agent Trimble has been brought to medical for surgery,” he says. “They’re optimistic that she’ll live.”

Clara’s lungs burn and her eyes are watering. She’s going to need to breathe soon.

“She probably won’t ever walk again,” Sitwell finishes.

Clara breathes out in a rush. She feels like she just swallowed a brick. Mason - happy, bubbly Mason in medical. Prognosis - not good.

“What happened?”

“Enemy combatant that wasn’t accounted for. Shot her. Spinal injury.”

“How didn’t they account for him?” Clara asks. “Don’t you do recon? And have at least two sets of eyes on every op?”

“We’re not perfect,” Sitwell says. He rubs a hand over his scalp, a tell of his. “Medical will alert Agent Coulson when she can have visitors. He’ll pass it on to you.”

“Agent Coulson’s back?” Clara asks.

“They’re all back,” Sitwell says. He rubs his head again. “He should be in his office if you want to go.”

Clara abandons her laptop and immediately goes to Agent Coulson’s office. He’s sitting in his desk chair, typing up a post mission report. She wants to yell at him for not taking care of Mason or snap at him for  _ working _ when Mason’s in medical and they’re only  _ optimistic  _ that she’ll live. But Agent Coulson’s normally steady hands tremble as he presses the keys, and the clean lines of his suit have been ruined by wrinkles.

Clara slips through the door and closes it gently behind her.

Agent Coulson looks up at her and just goes back to his computer.

“Can I read your report when it’s done?” she asks.

It’s not the question he was expecting if the surprise on his face is anything to go by. He looks at her for a long moment before he nods. “It’s not classified.”

“Okay.”

She sits at her desk and takes out her botany textbook. After geology, he told her she could pick what she wanted to study next. She picked plants. If Agent Coulson thought that was weird, he didn’t comment, just went out and got her a book on the various flora you could find throughout the world.

Flora’s a new word, one she learned from the book.

She knows what plants you eat, which ones you can’t touch and which have berries you can dip arrows in if you need to make sure you kill someone or you want to kill them painfully.

She reads about photosynthesis, a word that took her a few tries to get right, and studies the diagram that depicts the process until Agent Coulson hands her a piece of paper.

“Proofread it?” he asks. “I have to turn it in to Director Fury.”

She reads the report and instead of her own voice, she hears Agent Coulson’s in her head like he’s reading it to her. She reads about the mission goal, the recon they did, how carefully they set themselves up. She reads about how well everything went until it didn’t and the way Agent Coulson writes it out - neat, precise - a chaotic situation becomes words, simple and easy.

Sorel didn’t notice the enemy sniper until it was too late. Agent Coulson recommends a thorough visit to the psychologists to deal with the guilt that he’ll inevitably feel. Clara reads through Agent Coulson’s desperate attempt to be removed, to report like he was describing a movie and she wonders who talks to him about his guilt.

She learns one thing from the report, though. They need someone with eyes watching them. Someone with not just good but excellent vision.

Clara would’ve seen the sniper. She’s sure of it the way she’s never been sure of anything in her life.

She needs to become an agent.

She needs to have her friends’ backs so nothing like this ever happens again.

She hands the paper to Agent Coulson. “You can take it to the Director.”

Agent Coulson takes a deep breath. “This part is never easy,” he says.

She hopes she never has to find that out for herself.

After Agent Coulson leaves, there’s no reason to stick around his office, and she needs to empty her head so she goes up to the shooting range. She doesn’t have it in her to get hooked into Stark’s special bodysuit for the simulation, and she doesn’t want a gun in her hands.

Standing and shooting arrows at a target? That’s exactly what she needs. She just draws and releases, draws and releases until the entire world fades away, until it’s just her and her bow. There isn’t even a target, just the feeling of bringing her hand toward her ear and then letting go.

Over and over.

Mariah does yoga, but this is what meditation feels like for Clara, something so easy and simple but that she can get completely, utterly lost in.

She gets so deep she’s startled by the voice behind her and almost puts an arrow through Wesson’s eye.

“Woah, hey there,” he says, hands up. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Clara’s quick to lower her bow. “Sorry,” she says.

“Time’s up,” Wesson says, apologetic, like he knows she needs to be here right now. “I find that reality TV is a good distraction.”

She appreciates the suggestion. “I don’t have a TV,” she says and she’s not sure she can bear to go visit Madison or Mariah or Burns right now. “But thank you.”

“It’s gonna be alright, kid,” Wesson tells her. “It’ll hurt like hell, and you’ll be miserable, but it’ll get better.”

“It’ll happen again, though.” There’s always the chance someone might get hurt. She’s lucky Mason came back at all.

“Yeah,” Wesson sighs. “Welcome to the job.”

She gives him her bow and cleans up her stall before going down to her room.

For the first time in a long time, she pulls out her book and flips through the pages, looking at old postcards, thinking about old dreams, until she comes across the SHIELD brochure. She traces the letters of the name and takes a deep breath.

She’s never had control over who enters or leaves her life or how they leave it. She’s not sure why she thought SHIELD would be different. All she can do is try her damn best to make sure the people she cares about make it back from their missions in one piece.

~*~

Her resolve is only strengthened when they’re finally allowed to visit Mason - only two at a time - and she sees Mason looking small in a giant hospital bed, and especially pale surrounded by white sheets. Her hair is loose and greasy like it hasn’t gotten washed in a while, and her eyes aren’t quite clear - lingering effects of the drugs she’s on.

“Hey,” she says, still mustering up a smile for them. “What’s kicking?” She waits a second before she says, “Not me,” and starts laughing.

“Oh fuck,” Burns says, coming to sit next to her. “You’re going to make the most awful jokes, aren’t you?”

“Hell yes,” Mason says. “Especially to baby agents and if they laugh I’ll pretend to kick their asses. Make them feel the fear we did the first time Coulson joked.”

“Don’t even talk about that,” Burns says. “I still have nightmares.” She looks over at Clara. “You can come in.”

“I’m not going to bite,” Mason says.

Clara doesn’t say she doesn’t like hospitals, doesn’t say that being stuck like Mason is is one of her worst nightmares, because this isn’t about her. Instead, she shuffles in.

“Did something worse happen to me?” Mason asks, looking down at herself. “I don’t look different. What happened to your words, Clara?”

“Doctor said if I gave you a headache I didn’t get to see you again until you got released,” Clara admits.

Mason laughs. “Course they did. They poke and prod and bust me up until they have to pump me full of drugs, but I’m not allowed to talk to my friends. What’ve you been up to while I was gone? How’s the crush on Stark?”

Clara rolls her eyes. “I don’t have a crush on Stark.”

“Her heart was broken seeing his post-Valentine’s Day walk of shame,” Burns says. “It was glorious. Pelted with a dozen teddy bears holding hearts.”

“Oh man,” Mason says, “I should remember that one. I should’ve done it to Peter.”

“We never got that post-break-up drink,” Burns says.

Clara doesn’t mention that Burns hadn’t wanted to get that drink.

“I’m not going to be cleared to drink for a while,” Mason says.

“You think you’ll still be pissed at him once you’re off the good drugs?”

“Definitely,” Mason says.

“Then we’ll wait for that drink.”

They sit together and Clara listens to them talk about boys until the doctor comes and tells them visiting hours are over for the day. They promise to come back tomorrow.

Mason nods, already falling back asleep.

~*~

Clara’s done a lot of thinking about how to do this and in the end she decides to do it the way she did the first time.

She brings a requisition form to Agent Coulson.

“I have a mailbox,” he says but he takes it and glances it over. She can tell the moment he sees what she’s checked, because he goes still. “Same rules as before, trainee.”

“Figured,” she says. “You’re pretty big on rules.”

He looks up at her. “You sure about this?”

She shrugs. “Gonna have to let them poke around if I want to be an agent. Might as well practice.”

“I’ll set something up then,” he says.

~*~

She meets with the psychologists and it’s both as bad and not as bad as she thought it would be. She’s exhausted at the end of it, but after three hours in the range and a long nap she’s feeling okay.

She’s feeling like she can go in again and be okay.

She’s feeling like she might be able to be a SHIELD agent after all.

~*~

On Clara’s 18th birthday they have a little party for her.

Burns gets her a book series called  _ The Immortals _ because the main character is an archer and her parents are dead. Clara figures she’ll give it a shot.

Mason gets her a poster of Tony Stark that makes Clara laugh unexpectedly. She plans on just burying it somewhere until she sees Agent Coulson’s scowl so she decides to hang it up on her wall. He won’t ever see it there, but every time she sees it she’ll laugh.

Agent Coulson gives her an official trainee application. She’s tempted to hug him.

Instead, she says, “Only you would consider paperwork a good present,” and she’s given a second gift when he laughs.

It’s a good birthday.

~*~

It’s an even better day when she graduates from the trainee program, Agent Coulson looking on while she gets her junior agent pin. Director Fury is there somewhere in the crowd and down in the front row, in her brand new wheelchair, is Mason.

Mariah and Madison are on a mission together somewhere classified and Burns is on a separate mission, but they all left cards with Mason to give to her.

Junior Agent Clara Barton, she thinks, tucking the certificate into her book next to her SHIELD brochure. It’s got a nice ring to it.


End file.
